The Surreyian
by Sally Bahnsen
Summary: Jess is taken at gunpoint from the Laramie saloon. When wounded, he reluctantly accepts help from the man who took him captive. This is an adventure story with humour and hurt/comfort.


THE SURREYIAN

A Charlie Morgan Tale.

By Sally Bahnsen

THE SURREYIAN

Charlie Morgan was one mean hombre. Weren't no one messed with him less'n they wanted their head blowed off. Charles A. Morgan was a renowned bear hunter, accomplished 'coon trapper, astute Cavalry scout -and legend has it he'd even managed to take down a whole Shoshoni war party practically single-handed.

Outlaws quivered in their boots at the mere mention of his name. Bank robbers, bushwhackers and dirty rotten card sharps ran for the hills when they saw him ride into town. Lawmen begged for his services... yeah, Charlie Morgan was one mean bounty hunter, too.

Sadly, for Charlie, most of that had happened at night. In his bed. While sleeping. He dreamed big and lived small, but all that was about to change...

"Don't move, cowboy."

Jess Harper felt the all too familiar barrel of a Colt .45 digging hard into the small of his back.

"What's this about, mister?"

Charlie Morgan didn't like gunslingers. He didn't like school teachers, store owners, preachers, doctors, or puppies either. And he sure as heck didn't have much time for the law. 'Cepting for when they paid up what was owed him for bringing in them no-goods found on a wanted poster.

Charlie especially didn't take none too kindly to murderers – but he did find it in his mean old heart to make an exception when the price on their heads tipped into the four figure mark. Yes siree, the fella at the end of his gun was gonna fetch a handsome price, a handsome price indeed.

"This is about that price on your head. Now we can do this the hard way or the easy way. Either way, you lose and I win. Get rid of your gun. Take it out nice and slow. With your left hand. Then you can lay it on that table there. We don't want no trouble in this here fine establishment."

Morgan didn't give a flying fig that the small gathering of patrons leaning on the bar had put down their drinks and were turned to face the scene playing out before them. He weren't scared of no cow-punchers... nope, they didn't worry him one little bit.

"You wanna tell me what this is all about?" Jess asked, very carefully putting his gun on the table.

"You and me, we're gonna take a little ride. I got a marshal that's just bustin' to have you warmin' a bunk in his jail house."

"Mister... I don't know what you're playin' at but, you're about as wrong as last year's almanac. I ain't wanted..."

"Shutup! Now you walk. Is that your horse out front? The brown gentleman with the white spot on its head?"

 _Brown gentleman? With the white spot?_

"Been around horses a lot, have ya?" Jess asked, backing away from the bar and heading towards the batwing doors leading from the saloon.

"I've ridden a bit back... Oy! Thought I told you to shut up?"

When Jess turned to face the man, he saw a scruffy looking dude in bad need of a shave and even worse need of a bath. The man was awfully pale and Jess wondered briefly if maybe he was sick. He couldn't be 100 percent sure, but he coulda swore the man's hand was shaking.

Morgan picked up Jess's gun from the table and shoved it in the waist band of his pants.

"Walk," he ordered, gesturing towards the door with his iron.

"Sure. Whatever you say, Mister."

Charlie didn't detect the slightly bemused tone to Jess's voice. As far as he was concerned, he'd gone and netted himself one helluva big fish and in his mind's eye it was scaled, gutted and on its way to the frying pan. Yeah, Charlie Morgan was no slouch when it came to catching outlaws and back East he'd heard all them tall tales of Jess Harper and his gun-toting ways. Morgan had made it his personal mission to bag this ol' lunker and claim the reward. He had an awful lot riding on the bounty Harper would fetch.

Out front Charlie pulled a rope from around his saddle horn. His mount was a pretty little pinto standing about fourteen hands and tied to the hitching rail beside Jess's big bay.

"Stick 'em out." Charlie said, nodding towards Jess's wrists.

Once he had Harper tied, he ordered him to mount up.

Jess made his way over to his horse, the ' _big brown gentleman with the white spot.'_ With a quick and easy skip-hop, Jess was in the saddle.

Charlie hesitated mid-mount. _Boy,that was slick,_ he thought, admiration for the gunslinger's smooth transition from pedestrian to rider twinkling in his eye.

Removing his foot from the stirrup, Morgan made a quick mental calculation of weight versus height versus velocity versus angle versus wind-gauge. Certain it was within his range of expertise; Charlie bent his left knee and leapt upwards. There was a brief moment of self-congratulatory cheering when the toe of his boot caught the edge of the stirrup. But the moment was short lived. With a loud _smack,_ he face-planted the saddle and slid gracelessly to the ground where he landed with his left knee twisting painfully beneath him.

"Oh, bollocks!" Charlie muttered under his breath as he climbed awkwardly to his feet.

Jess quirked an eyebrow.

"Somethin' the matter down there?"

"No, No, I'm perfectly fine... Um... Dadgum it... thought I lost a rowel off my spur. Seems it weren't nothin' but a false alarm."

"Sure. We goin' some place or ya just gonna have me sit my horse all night?"

Charlie brushed himself off, tested his damaged knee and satisfied nothing was broken - picked up Harper's gun off the ground and returned it to his waistband. His own gun he kept in his hand.

On his third attempt at mounting Charles Morgan opted for the traditional method and made a successful launch into the saddle.

"Okay Harper, get goin'."

"Which way?"

Morgan pointed west along the main road of Laramie. "That way. You and me got some business to take care of in Cheyenne."

"Mister, you got an awful big disappointment waitin' for ya. Told ya, I ain't wanted..." _And Cheyenne's east, not west._ But Jess kept that little tidbit of information to himself.

"Shut up and ride."

They did.

The shadows were long and the air turned chill when Charlie Morgan decided it was time to stop for the night. Jess figured by now, with the way that fella'd been bouncing around in the saddle, that his ass probably didn't have a whole lot more mileage in it.

Charlie tethered Jess to one tree and the horses to another, then set about building a campfire.

In his previous life, before Wyoming, Charles A. Morgan hadn't spent a lot of time outdoors. But he'd read a lot. An easy accomplishment given his job was a store clerk in a bookshop. Chuck had always had a good imagination... the copious amount of Western dime novels he'd read over the years had certainly provided a constant and steady stream of nail-biting situations for his cowboy heroes. And Chuck had taken notes. He knew all the tricks for survival on the trail. In fact Charles had always been an exceptionally quick study... in his own special way. He'd excelled in school and then fast-tracked a career path from junior shelf-packer to senior clerk in nine short years.

There was nothing Charlie Morgan didn't know – in theory - about living in the west.

"Uh... what do ya think you're doin'?" Jess asked, as a pile of wood the proportions of a small outhouse started to take shape in front of him. "You tryin' to attract the attention of the whole Sioux nation, or maybe ya'd care to share camp with a bushwhacker or two?"

"Shutup, Harper, I know what I'm doing."

"Sure."

But Charlie started to have second thoughts. Maybe he _had_ over done it just a tad. Disassembling the campfire, he stowed half the wood to the side for the morning and struck a match on the sole of his boot. The head snapped off with not a spark to be seen. Twenty-five matches later, Jess thought he oughta say something.

"Ain't ya ever lit a match before? A man could freeze to death the way you're goin'." Jess had a vested interest in getting the fire started. Charlie Morgan had 'kidnapped' him from the saloon in the late afternoon after a routine trip into town to make a deposit at the bank. He'd been minding his own business, having a quiet drink before heading back to the ranch. He wasn't exactly equipped to be spendin' the night out on the trail.

"Of course I have. It's jolly well not my fault the wind keeps blowing them out."

Jess quirked an eyebrow – again - and tilted his head and waited. Nope. Not even a ripple. Wasn't no wind round there to speak of.

The word _tenderfoot_ tripped and danced through Jess's mind, bringing with it a certain tantalizing curiosity. There was a rather large seed of suspicion sprouting forth with big curly shoots that screamed _imposter_. Jess had an awful strong feelin' that maybe this fella hadn't spent a lot of time in the West. Probably not had much experience in the South, East or North, neither for that matter. Them ropes around his hands and feet and the ones anchorin' him to the tree were a mite too much on the loose side and Jess had a feelin' he'd only have to sneeze to find freedom. But there was somethin' about the man playin' bounty hunter that Jess had kinda warmed to. Something amusing, entertaining... He weren't of a mind to be breakin' away just yet.

"Ya know, if ya cut me loose, I could probably get that fire goin' for ya."

Morgan thought about his little house back in Surrey. The small hearth in his living room where night after night its glowing embers would take the damp chill out of the air. The trusty box of matches sat on the mantle above, and Charlie had always felt secure in the knowledge that one strike would produce the desired tiny flame to ignite the coals and eventually the logs meticulously placed in the fireplace. Charlie knew just the right technique of wood-stacking to create a small air-flow which would feed a flame and coax a fire to roar and crackle into life.

Charlie sneered at his prisoner before grabbing another match out of his pocket. Weren't no way in hell Morgan was going to let a little stick of phosphorous coated wood beat him. However, that empty feeling in his belly and the accompanying grumble might just be enough to take the wind out of his sails and for him to admit – temporarily – that maybe those dime novels had romanticised and exaggerated the ease in which a cowboy could light a fire out in the Big Open.

 _Bloody Nora, but I'm starving_. Given half a chance he coulda chewed his own arm off.

Jess was having similar problems. He figured it had been at least five hours since he last ate. A man oughtn'ta be forced to ride into the unknown on an empty stomach, and dadgum, Jess's belly had been cryin' foul for the last two hours. If he didn't get somethin' in it soon he was gonna pass clean out... and then he wouldn't have the strength to escape even if he'd wanted to.

"I don't know about you, mister, but I'm gettin' awful hungry. How about we call a truce till we get some grub in us?"

Charlie considered his options. The way things were, he was either going to be eating cold food and freezing his bum off, or he could trust this no-good, dirty, gunslingin' murderer and die with a good hot meal in his belly. All things considered, Chuck was leaning towards option two. After all, he held all the cards... or, in this case, guns. And Charlie was a good shot. Not just in his dreams, but in reality. His father had seen to it that he and his brother William were properly tutored in the handling of firearms. Perhaps the weapon of choice hadn't exactly been a six shooter, but Charles was fairly certain Mr. Jess Harper would be a good-sized target should he try to run and it was unlikely he'd miss at close range.

"Okay, Harper. But you watch your Ps and Qs. I'm just itchin' to pull this trigger. One false move and I'd be real happy to shoot that murderin' head of yours clean offa your shoulders."

"All I wanna do is fix somethin' to eat. I ain't gonna give you no trouble."

With a duet of grumbling guts resonating across the Western plains, Charlie cut Jess Harper free of the tree and waited impatiently while he rubbed the circulation back into his wrists and stamped some feeling into his feet.

One strike of a match, and Jess had the fire roaring into life.

"Okay, Harper, sit back against that log where I can keep an eye on you."

Jess eased himself down and leaned back, grateful to be close enough to the fire to leach some warmth out of it. But he wasn't so impressed when Charlie tied his wrists and ankles again. _That fella sure got himself all messed up when it comes to_ _knot-tyin'_. _This attempt ain't much better'n the last._

He occupied himself watching this strange man rummage in his saddle bags, somewhat relieved when he pulled out a can of beans, a slab of bacon and what looked like, in the shadowed light, some biscuits or hard tack. Jess's belly rumbled in anticipation and his mouth filled with saliva.

Charlie Morgan believed in being prepared. He prided himself on his ability to be one step ahead of disaster. He also prided himself in packing a saddle bag with all the modern conveniences of home that might be required while out on the trail. Of course, he had never actually _been_ out on the trail before. Except if you were to count those times when he'd had to walk through an old vacant plot of land not far from his house to get to the woods. From there he'd followed a path to an old smelting factory to look for his younger brother. William often took their games too far, never content to stay near the little cloth tepee their mother had painstakingly made for them to add a touch of realism to their game of cowboys and Indians.

Charles was always the good guy - the cowboy. After all, rank has its privileges and seeing as how he was the elder of the two brothers Charlie got to designate the roles. He frequently wondered if William took the part of Indian too seriously as a way of getting back at Charlie; or whether he was just so caught up in the moment that he forgot his mother's rule of never straying further than the council block of land two doors down the street.

He never did figure out what the attraction of the smelting factory was. The stench was abominable and the two boys regularly suffered a terrible bout of coughing on their return home, which effectively ended the game as their mother insisted they return indoors and swallow some of her home-brewed cough mixture. They slept for hours afterwards and had the most wonderfully vivid dreams.

So, here, out in the wild west of Wyoming, Charlie Morgan was feeling somewhat perplexed. Eyeing the can of beans longingly, he wondered how in the world he could have been so blooming daft and forgotten the can opener. _Bollocks!_

Charlie had often fantasized about eating over an open fire... beans and bacon frying in the pan, warm biscuits and crunchy hard tack. And now the object of his desire was so close at hand, yet so far away. How could he have let this happen?

Charlie had never actually tasted beans in the wild, but in his mind he had assigned those tasty little bundles of protein all the attributes of manna from heaven. They had to be something special, didn't they? The number of times they were consumed by his favourite cowboy heroes under the inky starlit nights of the wild, wild west of America.

Chuck had dreamed of this day and was not about to let a little thing like a can opener – or lack thereof— spoil it for him. He laid the can close by the fire hoping to at least heat the beans while he figured out a way to open them.

If Jess's stomach hadn't been complainin' so much, he might have felt inclined to sit by and be entertained by that fella's campside antics. But, dadgum, his belly was startin' to think his throat had been cut and now that he'd seen the beans, he'd developed a real hankerin' for them.

Jess took pity on the greenhorn. And his belly.

"There's a can opener in my saddlebag."

Charlie looked up in mid-swing, a rock about the size of a large potato clasped in his hand. It perhaps lacked the finesse of a can opener but Charles figured what it didn't have in style was more than made up for in effectiveness.

While Charlie was learned in many things, he had yet to catch up on the laws of physics. Jess on the other hand was well versed in certain scientific conclusions.

Heat plus beans plus rock-puncture equalled a pyroclastic eruption of mammoth proportions whereby bean particles spewed forth with unbridled fury only to deposit themselves in what seemed like a ten-mile radius. Jess had had the unenviable pleasure of washing beans out of his hair, his clothes, his boots and his saddlebag for at least a week after that little fire-side disaster. Consequently, Jess never left home without a can opener.

"Shutup, Harper, I know what I'm doing."

"Mister, trust me, you don't wanna hit that can with that rock."

There was a certain earnestness to the murderer's face which convinced Charlie maybe he oughta listen and pay heed to Harper's warning. He put the rock down, eyeing his prisoner warily before making his way over to Jess's horse and retrieving the can opener from his saddlebag.

Ten minutes later bacon and beans sizzled in the frypan. Jess was pleased to see there was a pot bubbling beside the fire – his caffeine-starved brain leapt for joy at the thought of a good strong cup of coffee.

Charlie's belly rumbled and gurgled and writhed in anticipation of food. In a sudden moment of rash desperation he grabbed the hardtack sitting on his plate and chomped down hard with his pearly whites... _Sod it! How in the name of all things holy do they eat these things?_

Wincing, Jess stifled a chuckle... barely. "If ya don't mind, mister, I'll have mine soaked in some water 'fore ya give it to me."

 _Oh,_ Charlie thought, _**that's**_ _how you eat them. They conveniently left that little detail out of the books he'd read._

Charlie hurrumphed and laid the hardtack aside for later, giving second thoughts to having it as an accompaniment to their meal.

Jess was torn between fascination and being downright annoyed by the man hunched over the camp fire. Having come to the realisation fairly quickly that the man holding him 'captive' wasn't exactly experienced in the trail-riding department. He also suspected he wasn't even an American. And he sure as heck weren't Texan... despite the man's best efforts to appear so.

Curiosity got the better of Jess and he just had to ask.

"You ain't from around these parts are ya, mister?"

Charlie felt a sudden sharp stab of fear, coated with disappointment and topped with an awful big dollop of deflation.

"Why do you ask that?"

Jess quirked an eyebrow – yet again. He felt a headache coming on.

"Well... for one thing you're tryin' too hard. And you ain't tended the horses yet. You do know you gotta feed 'em, don't ya? Gotta take the saddles off 'em, too. You ever sat a horse before today?"

Images of the merry-go-round rides at local fairs strolled wistfully through Charlie's mind. His father standing beside him and holding him on the wooden saddle of the carousel pony – Charlie all decked out in his cowboy gear, whooping it up and urging the mechanical equine to go faster and faster. As Charlie grew, he gravitated to the next level. His favourite was a cute little Shetland pony named Smoky. He'd always wanted to trot, but the bigger boys who led the ponies around the fairground arena were never allowed to go faster than a walk.

"Yeah, I've sat a horse before today." It wasn't a lie. Not exactly.

"'There's a bottle of liniment in my saddlebag if yer interested. It don't smell too pretty, but it'll take the edge off 'fore ya gotta mount up again..."

Charlie's rear, sensing a refusal was in the cards, gave him a short, sharp reminder that it weren't exactly lookin' forward to meetin' leather again anytime soon... like maybe not before the turn of the century. Charlie ignored it and the murderer's offer, opting instead to throw a dirty look at the wanted man and reach for two tin plates. It wouldn't do nobody no good if his prisoner died of starvation before they reached Cheyenne.

Armed with a plateful of beans, bacon and somewhat soggy, water-logged ex-hardtack for an accompaniment, Morgan made his way over to Jess with an offer of food.

"I suppose I better untie you."

"Ain't necessary." Jess lifted his hands, gave them a quick shake and watched with a mild expression of amusement as the ropes loosened and fell to the ground. Keeping an eye on Charlie he reached down and unhooked the ropes from around his feet.

A seething mist of red fury swirled through Charlie's mind, crossed his field of vision and spread out to his ears where a most uncomfortable ringing and buzzing took up residence. If he hadn't had his hands full with two plates of beans and bacon and a stodgy pile of hardtack-goo, he'd have reached for his gun and blasted a new hole where Harper kept his smart mouth.

"Relax... I ain't goin' nowhere." _Leastways not yet. Not till I find out what this fella's playin' at._

Charlie stood in front of his prisoner, chewing on his bottom lip and once again weighed up his options, which amounted to very little right at that precise moment because apart from throwing the plate of food at Harper, he had not a leg to stand on. But his time would come... Charlie took comfort in the famous words of Sun-Tzu, "Lose the battle, win the war." And this defeat was nothing more than a minor skirmish. Charles A. Morgan would rise victorious in the end.

Jess gratefully accepted the plate and spoon Charlie handed him, only gagging once at the unsightly blob of pulverized, soggy, wheat flour which once had passed itself off as a dry, flat piece of hard tack. Scraping the goo to the side, Jess hoed in with a spoon, shovelling beans and bacon into his mouth as fast as he could without choking.

"For goodness sake, don't you American's have _any_ manners? Just because we're in the West, doesn't mean you have to behave like a savage."

"Listen, Mister... you ain't one to talk... don't recall kidnappin' a man at gun point bein' particularly polite... in any territory."

The lowdown, murdering gunslinger had a point. Heaving a sigh, Charles lowered himself gingerly to the ground and leaned against a small boulder opposite Jess. With an air of disgust he studied the ex-hardtack floating on his plate with barely controlled disdain and figured someone, somewhere, had made a huge editorial blunder allowing such a god-awful substance to be written into his beloved dime novels.

When Jess had inhaled most of the food off his plate, he settled back against his log and studied the man before him. He didn't look all that mean. Under the dark shadow of whisker covering his jawline, the man looked more refined than his shabby unkempt clothing would indicate. This stranger had the hands of a man who'd seen little time outdoors... _he ain't a rancher, that's for sure, but he don't seem mean enough to be a bounty hunter._ Jess tried to get the measure of the man. If he had to make a guess he'd be more inclined to say he was one of them accountin' types. The kind who sat on his ass and liked to push a pencil around on paper. So why was he tryin' to make out he was something he weren't? Who was this man?

"You gonna tell me your name, mister? A fella oughta be able to hang a tag on the man who's gonna turn him over to the law."

Charlie studied the outlaw sitting across the fire from him. He didn't look like a murderer. Not in the classic sense. Yeah, he was a little scruffy around the edges, could certainly do with a shave, and wouldn't be a bad thing if he washed his clothes occasionally. But Charles didn't sense the meanness one would normally associate with those who chose to live on the wrong side of the law. He didn't suppose it would do any harm if Harper knew his name.

"Charlie Morgan."

 _Charlie Morgan._ Jess turned the name over in his mind, swished it around on his tongue, tested it on his lips, but nope... he'd never heard of the man.

"Charlie Morgan." Jess said out loud. "I ain't never heard of you. Where're ya from? I know you ain't from around here..."

 _Oh blast it all!_ Charlie was sure that he'd got his Texas accent down just right.

"How could you tell?"

Jess let out an involuntary cough and hid a smirk behind his hand. "Wasn't easy, that's for sure." He lied, sensing Morgan's need to at least have fooled him a little.

"I'm from England. A little place called Surrey."

"Well I'll be dadgummed! A Limey!" Jess chuckled quietly. "Whatta ya doin' way out here?"

"Bringing you in to the law, you dirty rotten scoundrel." Charlie was getting his ire up again. It was bad enough he'd been found out, but to have to admit to himself that so far his skill as a bounty hunter had been less than admirable and his mission was failing miserably, was just plain disheartening.

"Charlie... back in Laramie, in the saloon... I weren't kiddin' ya. I ain't wanted. What in blazes made ya think there was a price on my head?"

"This." Morgan fumbled around in his pockets until he found the piece of paper he'd been looking for. Then with a terribly British air of pomp and ceremony, he unfolded the poster and held it up for Jess to see.

Something about seeing his face on a wanted poster set his teeth on edge and the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention. Jess's voice turned low and menacing.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Marshal in Cheyenne gave it to me when he hired on my services. Said you'd been evading the law for a year or more but word had it you were holed up in Laramie. Said all I had to do was bring you in and he'd pay me the bounty." Morgan folded the poster and replaced it in his pocket. His earlier appraisal of Jess Harper was beginning to wane... the man's blue eyes had taken on a darkness he had only seen once before... in a wild deer his father had cornered while out on a hunting trip. The young Charles Morgan had stood by, watching as the creature had raised its hackles and hissed at his father right before a bullet had taken the animal down.

Charlie didn't like to shoot things. Well not live things. He was an excellent shot when it came to inert objects. Bulls-eye targets, rocks, bottles and tin cans lay in mass graves across the heart of England. Living breathing individuals with actual heartbeats... no, that was not his cup of tea at all.

Judging by the look in Jess Harper's eyes, Chuck imagined men like him weren't too fond of getting shot at, either, for that matter.

"What was his name?" Jess ground out, his jaw stiff and his teeth clenched.

"Marshal Treb McCann."

"Mister, you been fooled seven ways from Sunday. He ain't no marshal! McCann's a dirty bushwhacker. Robbed the stage six months ago and has been on the run every since. Killed the driver and wounded the shotgun... the man ain't likely to walk again."

Charles Morgan got a sinking feeling deep in his guts. There was an edge to Harper's voice that just begged to be believed. But Marshal McCann had been as equally convincing. And what about the wanted poster? If Harper was telling the truth why was there a poster with his face and name on it?

"That poster ya got... he give it to ya?"

Morgan nodded.

"Figures. I was cleared of that charge four years ago. Thought they'd all been called in. Guess I was wrong."

Jess sat quiet for a few seconds, right hand massaging his jaw. He needed to think. If McCann had set this Morgan character up to bring him in, likelihood was that he weren't gonna be waiting for them to make it back to Cheyenne. Lucky thing Morgan hadn't figured out they were going in the wrong direction. Still, if McCann knew Jess was in Laramie, there was a good chance he had spies in town... he and Morgan were sittin' ducks.

"Charlie. Give me my iron. Treb McCann, he don't play games and he's gonna be coming after me..."

Jess was just about to explain why when the zing of a bullet whizzed past Charlie's ear and into the log Jess was leaning against.

"Morgan! Get down!"

Jess was on his belly in an instant, gun drawn and hammer cocked ready to empty the chamber into whoever had fired the shot. Excepting that had all been an instinctive move... his gun was in fact still in Charlie's possession, buried in the waistband of the bounty hunter's pants.

Looking around, Jess saw Charlie had taken cover behind the rock he had previously been resting against. His gun drawn and hammer cocked ready to empty the chamber into whoever had fired the shot.

"Morgan! Where's my iron? "

"Shhh. I'm concentrating."

"Concentratin' ... whadda ya mean yer concentratin'? Where's my gun?"

"Over there."

Jess followed the direction of Charlie's pointing finger. And there, beside the campfire, on the ground, lay Jess's beloved walnut-handled Colt .45.

 _Dadgum it! Foolhardy, green-horn, two-bit tenderfoot! Whadda ya doing leavin' my gun out there?_

Charlie _was_ concentrating. While the weight and feel of a .22 rifle nestled in his hands was very familiar to Chuck, the Colt .45 six shooter was not. Cowboys running, jumping, rolling, diving off horses and catapulting down sheer grassy inclines only to come up on their knees and hit their targets played through his mind. In every novel he'd read, his heroes handled guns like they were an extension of their own hands.

Morgan ran through all the things he would need to make allowances for: wind speed, velocity, trajectory, weight, calibre, reaction time, distance and the fact it was pitch black and he couldn't see a blasted thing.

While mental calculations the magnitude of Pythagoras ran through Charlie's mind, the bad guys had seen fit to empty another chamber of lead into the camp site.

Charlie ducked, shaking in his boots, and a fearful memory of an incident from his childhood shoved all thoughts of mathematical equations far from his mind.

Images of the first time his cousins had taken him hunting stampeded through his brain, trampling all that stood in its way. He thought of George, the second eldest of the four cousins who had pinned a target on his back. At the time Charlie was somewhat confused until it was explained to him he was the prey. The substitute deer. The object of their bloodlust. He'd looked to the eldest boy, Thomas, only to see that yes indeed, it was true. The boys would be hunting him. _Him!_ Finally, James the youngest cousin, but still two years older than Charlie had taken pity on him and told the truth... they were only kidding. And now... the feeling of being the hunted came hurtling back to him with an uncomfortable clarity that he didn't care to admit.

That made Charlie mad. Real mad.

While Morgan seethed at childhood antics, another bullet almost parted the hair on his head. As it was, his hat went flying backwards and Charlie decided he would not sit idly by and let those no-good dirty, bushwacking outlaws kill him. Charles A. Morgan was, after all, a crack shot. An expert rifleman. He was Surrey Gun Club's top marksman for four years running and had the trophies to prove it. Charlie knew he could hit a target. Granted he had yet to succeed at a moving one, but being the glass-half-full kinda guy he was, he figured it couldn't possibly be all that complicated. According to his dime novels, all you had to do was point and fire and the bullet would find its target practically on its own. In a random act of insanity, Charlie stood and took aim.

Jess wasn't one to put his life in the trust of another man. His one exception being Slim. He sure as heck had no intention of playing sitting duck behind a fallen log while Charlie Morgan - wannabe-bounty hunter - acted as the last line of defense.

While Jess was gnashing his teeth and snarling in a most unseemly manner, another shot rang out, followed closely by the ping of bullet finding rock and a splinter of granite flew through the air. Jess Harper was mad. Real mad. In a random act of insanity he decided to make a grab for his gun.

"Morgan! Cover me, I'm goin' for my iron."

 _Cover me? Cover me! Oh hell..._

Charlie gripped the butt of his .45 tighter. His arms pulled straight and tense resting across a small groove in his rock. With more bravado than he felt, Charlie pulled back the hammer and peering into the darkness took aim at his unknown assailants.

"Now!" Harper yelled and Charlie let loose... firing from left to right until the sharp report of bullets leaving barrel was replaced by a muted clicking noise.

 _Bollocks!_ Charlie hadn't given much thought to extra ammunition. Truth be told he hadn't given any thought to it at all. People in Surrey didn't walk around with sidearms tied down at their hips. Or bullets looped in belts around their waists. It just wasn't done. Considered terribly bad manners indeed. Charlie had been caught short. He'd better let that Harper fella know about the downturn in bullet supply.

"Harper..." Charlie turned just in time to see Jess leave the cover of his log and sprint towards the camp fire. A return volley of gunfire echoed through the still of night. Jess dropped and rolled, hand closing around his gun. His inertia carried him on and in one swift motion he was on his knees, finger squeezing the trigger. He got off four rounds before dirt kicked up in front of him.

 _What in the Sam Hill was Morgan doin'? Where's my cover? What was that greenhorn playing at now?_

Jess pivoted on his toes and made a dive towards his log, but in that split second of hesitation to consider what Charlie was doing a bullet found its mark.

The slug caught Jess high in the right shoulder and he hit the ground hard. The pain was immediate. A burning, numbing sensation rushed down his arm and his gun was thrown wide of his intended hiding place. For a second his breath was taken away along with the capacity to form any manner of clear thought.

Charlie turned in time to see Jess go down... _oh hell! Look at all that blood._

Jess was moving, although not exactly in an assertive way. He was rolling from side to side clutching his shoulder. Blood oozed from between his fingers and Morgan felt his stomach lurch, but also felt an extraordinary surge of relief as he realised his 'prisoner' was alive.

Charlie was a pretty easy going sort of fellow. It was rare for him to get truly angry... there were a lot of buttons that had to be pushed before he would actually blow his top. Right now, though, Charlie was cheesed off in the highest possible order.

A sudden rush of fury - and not much thought for the consequences – pushed Charlie to a decision that would not normally come to him.

Fortunately years of playing dodge ball on the quiet cobbled streets of Surrey had taught Morgan the finer art of ducking and weaving. He was truly a master at avoidance. Heaving a deep breath of courage, Charles made a dash towards Jess Harper, scooping him by the collar of his shirt and dragging him behind the safety of their boulder.

With no sign of his usual flare of British aplomb, he dumped the wounded man unceremoniously on the ground. Before he could gather his thoughts, Charlie had another brain snap and decided to make a run to where Jess had lost his gun. Dime novels they may be, but Charlie's favourite books had taught him well. In a move that any fictitious cowboy would be proud of, Charles Morgan made a most impressive dive, tuck and roll and in one smooth motion came up with his intended objective. With Harper's gun firmly clutched in his hand he ran – dodging a new spray of gunfire – back to the makeshift shelter of his rock.

Charlie collapsed beside Jess and with illusions of grandeur pulsing through his brain, leaned over and released the buckle of Jess's gun belt making it his own. He then reloaded his empty firearm with the much sought after ammunition.

Jess moaned.

 _Dadgum but I'm in some kind of a fix. Holed up with a Limey tenderfoot, a bullet in my shoulder and no foreseeable way outta this mess._

Drawing on instinct born of many projectile mishaps, Jess pulled his bandanna from around his neck and pressed it against the hole in his shoulder.

"Don't move, Harper... I'll tend to you in a tick." Confidence at a record high, Charlie again lined up his now fully-loaded iron and started firing in a systematic grid. Charles had always had a keen sense of hearing and an even better sense of direction, except when it came to knowing the difference between east, south, north and west. But he sure did know his lefts from his rights and he understood the tactical strategies used to stalk an unsuspecting bushwhacker.

Jess was getting agitated. The bullet in his shoulder had left his gun hand numb and uncooperative and the accompanying pain had reduced his thought processes to the pace of a dead snail. Charlie's words slowly penetrated the swirling fog backed up in his brain.

' _Don't move, Harper...'_ Jess wasn't accustomed to being talked to like that. Not unless there was a gun pointed at him. _Dang blame it all... I'm gonna get my iron and I'm gonna sort Morgan out and I'm gonna..._ do a lot of things until he attempted to get up. The sudden spike of agony that accompanied the move was so strong it froze him mid-crouch and pushed his level of consciousness to an all time low.

Through the blur that was passing as his eyesight, Jess couldn't be sure if he was dreaming, hallucinating or suffering from a severe case of wishful thinking. Charlie Morgan greenhorn-tenderfoot-wannabe-bounty-hunter had a gun in each hand, was on his feet and twisting away from the boulder with both barrels firing into the night. The intermittent sounds of grunts and groans that accompanied Charlie's assault eventually petered out until all that could be heard was the sound of galloping hooves retreating into the distance.

Charles Morgan had a sudden rush of adrenaline. His chest puffed out, his biceps bulged, his head swelled large with the enormity of his accomplishment. Glorious tales of the 'Legend of Charlie Morgan' had already begun to take shape in his mind. He'd be famous, there would be books written about _him._

Chuck twirled the Colt .45s around his fingers, blew the smoke off the end of the barrel and placed one of the guns in his holster.

' _Well, that was a bit of a doddle.'_ Charlie thought in a moment of inflated sense of importance.

And then he remembered Harper.

 _Oh bugger_...

"Morgan..." Jess summoned a weak gasp, still confused as to whether he was dreaming or had simply lost his mind. Had he really just witnessed Charlie Morgan make them dirty no-good sidewinders turn tail and run?

 _I'll be dad-gummed. That tenderfoot just saved my life._

Charles took one look at Harper... at the blood leaking from between his fingers, at the red-soaked bandanna plugging the hole in his shoulder and knew immediately what he had to do. With long purposeful strides, Charles headed over to his saddle bag and pulled from it the biggest Bowie knife he had been able to find at the general store. He stoked up the fire with some of the wood he'd reserved for morning and then returned to Harper. He stood over the wounded man, knife glinting in the light from the freshly blazing fire and declared. "I'm gonna take that bullet out of you."

Jess looked at Morgan through pain-slitted eyes. "Ya ever dug a bullet out of a man before?"

"Not exactly, but I once removed a splinter from my finger."

Charlie didn't like blood. The sight, the smell, the mere thought of it made his throat constrict around his gag reflex and his stomach convulse in a most unmanly manner. The word 'splinter' was barely out of his mouth before a shocking dose of reality came hurtling towards him and wrapped itself around his legs threatening to bring him to his knees. Yes, Charles Morgan was well and truly on the way to a dead faint when he was brought back to his senses by an unexpected bout of courage. He snapped his knees to attention and stood tall and proud; stoic in the face of all that red stuff oozing between Harper's fingers. Charlie could do this, he knew he could. After all he'd read a doctor book once, in fact he'd read three. And what's more... a man's life depended on him.

Jess on the other hand was having immediate feelings of panic and longing for an inspired plan of escape. _A splinter! A dad blamed splinter._ "Morgan... you can put that knife away. I ain't lettin' you nowhere near me with that thing. Now, help me up."

Normally Jess was not one to cut and run when faced with an impending bullet extraction. Over time he'd had plenty of practice, with the last four years notching up an impressive eighteen slugs finding their way in or through his body. Jess was not a coward and he'd shoot the first man who said he was. But there was a tiny traitorous muscle jumping and spasming along the right side of his jaw which he suspected was a dead giveaway that he was not sitting all that comfortable with the prospect of Charlie Morgan cutting him open.

"Don't be ridiculous Harper. You can't ride in that condition. I am perfectly capable of removing the bullet from your shoulder," Charlie lied.

Jess was hurtin'. He was hurtin' real bad. Dadgum if this wasn't the hurtin'est slug he'd caught in the shoulder yet. But he'd be darned if he was gonna admit it to that tangle-foot greenhorn from Britain. Harnessing his last remaining strength, Jess gritted his teeth and pushed himself up with his good hand. All was going to plan until he got his legs under him. What little blood wasn't leaking from his shoulder drained from his head and rushed in a southerly direction where the rest of him soon followed. Jess landed in a crumpled heap on the ground with the sound of roaring thunder pulsing through his ears.

 _Bugger!_ Charlie went to Harper's aid, gulping down huge lungfuls of stomach-settling air and ran a quick inventory of what he needed to do to save the man's life. First thing he had to get under control was his aversion to blood, because one thing was for sure, Harper's life-source would soon be flowing freely when Charlie went in for the slug.

Jess was barely conscious when Charlie lowered himself by his side, Bowie knife still clasped in his hand.

"Harper... you relax, I'm going to get you something to take the edge off the pain. With a bit of luck, you'll be out of it by the time I'm ready to perform surgery." Charlie had to admit to himself that he had taken a certain amount of liberty with the word 'surgery', but it certainly had a nice ring to it.

Charles Morgan was starting to believe his own press.

Jess felt the end was near. He was too weak to fight, and the unusually intense pain this bullet wound was causing him was making the end look almost inviting... almost... but not quite. Dadgum if he could just get his good hand on his gun he'd take that no good phoney bounty hunter down with one shot. Not on his life was he letting Morgan come near his shoulder with that damn knife in his hand.

"Here, Harper, drink this." Back in Surrey, on those cold winter nights, or even those rare balmy ones where the temperature would soar to the heady heights of forty-nine degrees, Charlie would kick back and relax after a hard day of cataloguing books, with a small _aperitif_ before dinner. Sitting in his favourite chair with the latest Western novel from America perched in his lap, Charlie found a good three-finger snort of alcohol never failed to set the mood for that night of blissful relaxation ahead.

Although Charles had been somewhat lackadaisical regarding the can opener, he'd made no such errors when it came to packing his favourite Harvey's Bristol Cream sherry. Charlie had taken a quick swig by the horses - for medicinal purposes only of course - and boy was he in need of some good old fashioned nerve-calming reinforcement before he took on the task of bullet extractor. He figured Harper could do with a quick mind-numbing snort to calm his nerves, too. And he was right.

Jess grabbed hold of the neck of the bottle with his good hand relieved and a little surprised that Charlie had been as good as his word. He popped the cork with his teeth and swallowed half the contents before the taste finally registered on his tongue. It wasn't exactly a squeak as realisation hit home but it came darn close. Jess's eyes grew wide and the mouthful of fine Bristol sherry he'd been about to swallow shot from his mouth in an impressive spray of spit and liquor.

"Whadda ya tryin' to do? Poison me? That ain't whiskey!" Jess continued to spit the foul taste from his mouth while swiping the back of his hand across his lips.

"I'll have you know that is one of John Harvey and Sons' finest drops of cream sherry."

This information failed to impress Jess in the least and he upped the ante on his complainin'. "I don't give two hoots what you call it... it don't even come close to tastin' like whiskey. Ain't ya got any decent likker in that saddlebag a yours?"

Charles was feeling somewhat peeved at the uncouth way in which Harper had been referring to his favourite pre-dinner nip.

"No I do not. Now I suggest you man-up and drink the blasted sherry before I dig that bullet out of you cold." Jess seemed to have a knack for pushing all of those buttons that sent Charlie's top skyrocketing towards the heavens.

"Toldya, ya ain't comin' near me with that knife."

"Oh really? So you think you can ride in that condition, do you?" Charles had a nephew back in Surrey; Rodney Herbert Edward Morgan. William's son. Rodney was a proper pain in the arse at the best of times and he was only three years old. There was something about Harper that reminded Charlie of Rodney.

"You bet I can." Although Jess was leaning towards folding his cards and keeping his stake tucked firmly in his wallet. He sure couldn't remember a bullet wound givin' him so much grief – cepting that time he caught one in the chest. It throbbed like the dickens and every movement felt like a stake driving clean through his shoulder. He also wondered why he couldn't feel his right hand. And that worried him.

Charlie thought Harper was the most pig-headed, stubborn, ornery fool he had ever met. But duty called and Chuck was not one to shirk his responsibilities.

"You can't even stand let alone ride, so why don't you stop your whinging and let me help you?"

"Help me!? You ain't had no doctorin' experience. The way you been goin', you'd likely cut my arm off. 'Sides, why do you care? It weren't more'n an hour ago you was willin' to hand me over to that so-called marshal in Cheyenne."

Harper had a point.

Charlie was always on the lookout to find new ways to better himself. Reading doctor books in between deliveries of his Western novels was one way he'd managed to keep his brain trained up and ready to compete at a moment's notice.

There was that one time he'd elevated his training regime to a higher level and included a psychology book. But Charlie's brain had pulled a muscle – that particular book was too flipping boring and he soon tired of having to refer to his medical dictionary to decipher all those words with no vowels in them. But he'd absorbed enough information to occasionally slip into his own version of self-analysis. And now seemed to be just the right time to indulge in a little therapy session with his subconscious in an attempt to figure out what exactly was making him tick.

Lowering himself down to sit on the log they'd used as cover, Charlie seriously considered Harper's question. Why _did_ he care? Maybe because back in the civilized world of Surrey England it was the done thing. You helped your fellow man... even if he was a dirty, lowdown, scum-sucking gunslinger from Texas. But Charlie knew that wasn't the whole reason. Right now he was more inclined to believe Harper's story of innocence than that sleazy marshal fellow who, it would seem, had played him for a fool back in Cheyenne. Besides, Harper was starting to grow on him in a rather perverse sort of way.

"Never mind about why. Just be thankful you have me on your side and I am equipped to remove that bullet and potentially save your life." The legend of Charlie Morgan was growing larger than life before his very eyes. Charles gave fleeting thought that maybe he ought to watch out for an impending strike of lightning. But being on a roll, he continued, "Now drink the bloody sherry before I have to force it down your throat."

Jess visibly flinched and his eyes narrowed while at the same time the muscle in his jaw twitched nervously along the side of his face. His one working hand curled itself into a fist and there was a real yearnin' developin' for decking this no-good Limey imposter. It was _his_ fault Jess was in this predicament. It was _his_ fault Jess wasn't at home, snug and warm in the comfort of his ranchhouse with his belly full of Daisy's chicken and dumplings and hot apple pie. It was _his_ fault he was sitting on the hard ground freezing his ass off, shoulder throbbing and no feeling in his gun hand.

Jess was working himself up into a real lather but reality was that he weren't in no position to do nothin' about it. So in a moment of frustrating realisation Jess opted for turning the air blue using a string of cuss words that would have given Daisy a conniption. Probably Slim, too, for that matter.

Charles however was incredibly impressed and was taking mental notes, storing some of the more colourful words away to include in his own vocabulary should the occasion arise for their use.

In the end Jess had to admit defeat.

"To tell the truth, Morgan, I ain't feelin' so good. Can't even feel my fingers."

"It probably means the bullet is pressing on a nerve. All the more reason to get it out post-haste before you suffer permanent damage."

While the words were coming thick and fast and exuding a hell of a lot of confidence, Charlie was having to practice enormous feats of self control to stop his feet from freezing over and his legs from shaking enough to cause a small reading on a seismoscope. To put it mildly, Charlie was terrified.

And while the wanted poster on Harper may not be valid, surely all those stories of Harper's gun-slinging ways he'd heard back East couldn't just be tall tales with no substance. If he botched up the bullet removal, Charles was certain Harper would hunt him down to his dying day. Still, there was no point wallowing in what-ifs. Shaking off his inadequacies, Charlie stoically stiffened his upper lip and got about the urgent business of extracting that slug from Harper's shoulder.

Jess downed the rest of the sherry, cussin' and complain' with every mouthful he forced down his gullet. Towards the end though, a warm glow was creeping up his body. His face and lips were numbing up nicely and his brain had kind of lost its propensity for thought and feeling along the way as well. Yes, Jess Harper was basking joyously in the effects of John Harvey and Sons' finest Bristol Cream sherry and _dadgum_ if he wasn't likin' it, too.

With a self-diagnosed fit of obsessive-compulsiveness, Charlie systematically recalled all the things he'd read in the doctor books that were relevant to extracting a bullet from an uncooperative individual plugged to the eyeballs with twenty-five ounces of Bristol Cream sherry. And... regarding persons who found themselves out in the big open under the Western sky with very little light, no anaesthetic, pain killers or real means of sterilising the surgical instruments. _Uh... make that instrument_ , Charlie amended in his head, as he studied the twelve-inch bowie knife clasped in his hand. The grand total of said relevant information basically amounted to... well... nothing at all.

Charlie guessed this situation wasn't common in the medical recesses of St George University. Charlie would have to wing it. Fortunately he was becoming an expert in the art of improvisation. He wondered briefly if Harper had saved any of that sherry. A little Dutch courage wouldn't go astray right about now.

Jess on the other hand was feeling perfectly relaxed... if you didn't count the impossible pain in his shoulder and the unnerving numbness in his hand. He shook the bottle of Harvey's cream sherry lamenting the fact it was empty and looked up in time to see Morgan approaching with the Bowie knife glowing red in one hand and a bite-sized piece of wood in the other.

"Here, Harper, chow down on this." Charlie's voice boomed unusually loud in the stillness of the night as he shoved the piece of wood between Jess's teeth.

All those dime novels had stipulated the necessity to ply a man with alcohol and give him something to chew on during the bullet-extracting process. Charles examined his mental checklist, pleased to be able to cross off steps one and two from his imagined pre-op procedure.

Charlie unbuttoned Jess's ex-blue denim shirt and removed the sodden bandanna from the wound in his shoulder. As predicted blood oozed in a big coppery glob from the neatly puckered hole. Also as predicted, Charlie's stomach lurched most uncooperatively at the sight of all that blood pouring from Harper's body. _I can do this, I can do this, I can do this... No_ _I bloody well can't. Who am I trying to kid_? _I'm not a cowboy or a bounty hunter and I'm sure as heck not a doctor. I'm a bookstore clerk._

Charlie imagined adventures, he didn't have them. He lived vicariously through the trials and tribulations of the characters in his beloved novels. He pored and sweated over medical journals, for what reason he couldn't really say, other than the fact he found medicine in all its entirety terribly, terribly fascinating. But a rude and long overdue reality check had just clipped Charlie upside the back of his head. _I cannot take that bullet out of Harper's shoulder... hell I barely managed the splinter from my finger without puking my guts out and swooning like a proper pansy._

Charles untied his bandanna from around his neck and bunched it up in readiness to apply pressure back on the bullet wound when a hand suddenly wrapped itself around his wrist.

"You can do this, Morgan. I got faith in ya."

Charlie's grey eyes bored into Jess's alcohol-glazed blue and for a second he almost believed he could, but then he shook his head no. "I can't Harper. I'm..."

"Morgan... if ya don't take that bullet out, my hand mightn't never work again. I been told once by a doc I was lucky the nerves in my shoulder weren't all tore up by the slug... he told me what it woulda felt like if it had. This comes mighty close to what he described. Yer... yer all I got to get me outta this fix... ya gotta do it." _Course you're the reason I'm in this mess, too,_ but Jess thought it more prudent he keep that information to himself.

Charlie thought about what Harper said. He knew it was his fault the man was lying there with the possibility of losing the use of his right arm. He figured he owed Harper to at least try.

He nodded, "okay."

Jess let out a slow breath. "Ya won't be needin' that knife. Too big. Check my right boot. I got a smaller knife tucked in there that'll work better."

Charlie hesitated, eyeing the Bowie knife in his hand.

"Go on." Jess said, nodding towards his right foot.

Charlie did as he was told.

Jess continued to instruct Morgan on the finer art of bullet extraction. "When ya make that first cut, there's gonna be a lotta blood. Sometimes the blood gets backed up 'cause the hole ain't big enough for it to get out. Ya just gotta ignore it." Jess paused... licked his lips... then went on. "Ya should be able to feel the path of the bullet with yer finger. The doc always tries to not cut a real lot if he can help it but depends how deep it's gone..."

Charlie's head was swimming, his mouth was filling with saliva and Harper's words were fading in and out... if he didn't shut up Charlie was going to keel over any second...

"Enough! Enough. It would seem you've had some experience at this sort of thing."

"Yeah. Some."

"So if I need help during the procedure you can instruct me."

"It don't work like that, Morgan. Once you start cuttin' I ain't gonna be real talkative."

"What do you mean?"

Jess glared at Morgan, ignoring the question. "If I start movin' around too much, then yer gonna have to sit on me. I'll do my best to stay still... but... that ain't always possible."

Charlie felt a cold sweat break out. It coated his brow it pooled in his armpits and it weaved a chilling path down his spine. ' _Oh Lord, what have I done? This is sounding far worse than gouging a splinter from one's finger.'_

Charlie swallowed a huge uncomfortable gulp. Every instinct was screaming at him to run. While medical journals had fascinated him, and while he had often wondered what it must feel like to have the power and the knowledge to save a man's life... he had never envisioned such heroism taking place in the middle of the night amongst the dirt and the dust and the cool night air of a lonesome prairie. His dreams were far more romantic... far more civilised. And there'd always been a pretty little nurse looking at him with adoring eyes.

"If ya hafta... kneel on my arm... by then I won't feel it."

Charlie swallowed hard, his stomach beginning to roll around on itself.

"After yer finished, when the bullet's out, it's more'n likely I'll be bleedin' like a stuck pig... you'll need to cauterize the wound ..."

That was the last straw. Bile, hot and sour rushed up Charlie's throat and filled his mouth. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he made a hasty retreat behind the nearest bush and lost the entire contents of his stomach. His hard-earned beans, the crispy fried bacon and bloody hell if there wasn't some carrot in there, too.

With the emptying of his stomach there came a clarity of the mind and Charlie steeled his nerves, bolstered his resolve and returned to Harper with a renewed confidence that maybe he _could_ handle taking that bullet out.

One thing Charles did know, he had to clean that knife of Harper's. It was bad enough he was forced to perform surgery in these archaic conditions... he could at least try and preserve some semblance of cleanliness. However inadequate it might be.

Jess wasn't surprised at Morgan's reaction. If he remembered right, he'd tossed his cookies the first time he'd had to remove a bullet, too. 'Course he'd done it _after_ the event not before but Jess had to remind himself that Charlie's most traumatic surgical experience to date was a splinter.

"Okay, Harper... are you ready?" Charles held the newly-sterilized Buck knife firmly in his hand, hoping it would be enough to allow him to find the slug buried in Harper's shoulder.

"Just get on with it." Jess knew what was in store and it weren't a thing you was ever really ready for... It was simply something you had to endure to survive.

Charlie hovered over Jess with knife poised to cut. He stared at the ugly bullet wound still oozing blood and hauled long and hard on his dwindling confidence, fighting to bring it back where it could do him some good.

"Well... whadda ya waiting for? It ain't gonna come out just by lookin' at it."

Harper's voice jolted Charles into action. Drawing a long, deep breath, Charlie put the knife against the wound and pressed.

When Morgan made the first incision he felt Harper stiffen, heard a muffled grunt, the grinding of teeth against wood and the sound of his own heart pounding madly against his rib cage.

After the second incision, Charlie offered up a silent prayer and dug an exploratory finger into the wound in search of the bullet.

sssSSSsss

Jess's version of heaven had always included horses. Fine thoroughbreds who held their heads high and galloped like the wind and never grew tired. In his heaven he saw expensive saddles that smelled of leather and horse sweat. There were boots especially made for Saturday night dancing that shone so bright you could see your reflection in them.

Of course, he saw girls. Lots and lots of pretty gals who smiled and sashayed and wore pink frilly dresses and high-steppin' lace up boots. He saw the Big Open... the sky so blue it hurt your eyes. He smelled the air fresh and clean and filled with the heavy scent of sagebrush. There were campfires and pans of sizzling bacon, and biscuits freshly baked with butter that dripped from the sides... and there weren't no sign of a doggone piece of hard tack anywhere to be seen. Jess's heaven had bottles of whiskey whose contents flowed smooth as velvet down your throat.

In reality, Jess supposed heaven was more like the hymns he'd sung in church, with green pastures and quiet waters that danced and tripped over rocks that sparkled like gold. He supposed you would likely find white fluffy clouds whereupon would sit angels who played harps or trumpets and sang praises to the Lord. He supposed the real Heaven had God residing on a throne, His long white beard curling to His knees and arms spread wide in welcoming abandon as His flock arrived at the Pearly Gates all expectant and shiny-new.

Except, as far as Jess was concerned heaven was a moot point. He had always - at least from young adulthood to the present- been fairly certain that neither version of the afterlife would hold a place for him. So it was with some surprise, when Jess returned to the terrestrial world, he found a cocoon of warmth and an unusual sense of well-being waiting for him.

He felt the gentle touch of early morning rays caressing his cheek, the comforting sensation of being buried under layers of woollen blankets, the slightly more intense heat which radiated from a campfire... the pungent smell of burning pine. He heard the first calls of the prairie birds as they woke to greet the freshly dawning day. And if his senses were telling him right... there was bacon sizzling in a pan too.

Dadgum... had he really made it to heaven?

As a child, Charles Morgan had been bombarded by the vicars at school about the many roads that led to hell. Vivid descriptions of fire and brimstone and Lucifer with his pointy horns and trusty pitch fork, who waited, hands rubbing together in glee, as the unfortunate sinner stepped over the threshold into an inferno of molten tar and everlasting torment.

Charles had tried really hard to be a good person... his one major slip-up only occurring yesterday when he'd taken Jess Harper at gunpoint from the bosom of the Laramie saloon.

Charlie hadn't expected to meet with hell quite so soon and he had certainly never imagined it would exist on the western plains of Wyoming. Nor would he have imagined there could be a place on earth far worse than the eternal damnation described by the vicars. But Charlie had lived through it the night before.

Cutting that bullet out of Harper was nothing short of barbaric. But Harper had rallied and taken it like a man. He'd steadfastly sunk his teeth into that ridiculous piece of wood and quietly endured Morgan's delving until finally the ordeal had become too much. Charlie had had mixed emotions when Harper finally passed out. The Big Open can be a very lonely place when you have your finger buried to the knuckle in a man's shoulder.

But Charles had persevered with his search and retrieval mission and despite the blood pulsating across his hand, and the churning of his stomach, he managed to find the bullet and extract it from its hiding place.

Jess was enjoying his place of restful bliss, but it would seem that even in heaven... nature calls. _Funny, I ain't never thought about that before..._ And so it was with an awful lot of regret he summoned up the energy to move.

Reality could be a real heifer at times. She weren't real particular 'bout who she snuck up on and caught by surprise. Fact is, she took a real liking to blindsiding a victim when it was least expected. Seemed to satisfy a certain mischief in her.

Jess had been enjoying a wonderful sense of calm... of disembodiment... of peace and tranquillity... But all good things must come to an end and reality was on its way to take a nice big chunk out of Mr. Harper's rear end.

Chuck had thought he'd heard them all yesterday. But when Charlie's quiet contemplation of hell was interrupted by Jess letting loose with a new and inspiring string of multi-syllable cuss words, he found he was grabbing for his mental notebook and scribbling just as fast as he could. Harper sure had a colourful vocabulary, and Charles was keen to make some of it his own.

Jess was given a rather rude awakening back into the real world. His first attempt at moving sucked the air clean outta his lungs leaving him frozen in place, his mouth twisted in a silent grimace and his eyes slammed shut. The second movement drove the air right back in and allowed him to voice his discomfort with a long descriptive litany of what animals did in the wild, of the doubtful legitimacy of Charlie's parentage, of things he would like to do when he got his bleepin' hands on that bleepin' no good gun-totin 'bleepin' fool who bleepin' well had no bleepin' business takin' a man at gun point and bleepin' playing dang-blamed bleepin' games he had no bleepin' idea about. And so it went on until Charlie made his way over to where Jess was half-sitting, propped up on his good arm and mouth going nineteen to the dozen as he conveyed to all and sundry the displeasure he felt about his current situation.

Charlie had no trouble getting Harper's drift. He also had no trouble understanding why he was so upset and quite frankly was surprised Harper had kept his temper in check as long as he had.

"Good morning. How are we feeling this fine Wyoming day?" Charles had always been a morning person and never understood the filthy looks sent his way when he bounced into the bookstore as chipper and frisky as a newborn colt all enthused and eager to meet the day head on.

" _We_ ," Jess growled, "are feelin' a real need to shoot somethin'... or someone." He aimed a meaningful look at Morgan. "Help me up."

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea, Harper. We don't want to start that wound leaking blood again, now, do we?"

Jess laid a frosty double-barrelled glare on Charlie. "You better get me on my feet 'fore I start leakin' from other places. Now help me up, Morgan!"

Jess was in sore need of coffee. On returning to the campsite he saw Charlie had set a pot to boil and there were beans and bacon warming in a pan to the side as well.

"Give me a cup of that brew, will ya, Morgan?" Jess lowered himself down to sit on the log by the fire, running his good hand through his hair. While Morgan was sorting out coffee Jess took a few moments to study the way his right arm was all trussed up like a Sunday roast.

Jess raised an eyebrow and swallowed a mouthful of blasphemy as he took in just exactly what he was trussed up with. While he was willing to congratulate Charlie on his ingenuity he wasn't real sure how he felt about having another man's underwear doubling as a makeshift sling. And while the question was just begging to be asked, _are they clean?_ He thought there were some things better left unknown.

Charlie, noticing the way Harper was studying his attire chimed in with, "I would have put a clean shirt on you but the only other one I have is dirty. I assumed you'd rather wear your own."

 _No, that ain't exactly what I was concerned about... not even close._ But Jess didn't press. Instead he nodded his thanks as Charlie placed a cup of steaming liquid in his hand and closed his eyes in readiness to appreciate the taste of his longed for caffeine fix.

Seeing Jess spit his brew twenty feet across the campsite was not the reaction he was expecting when he watched Harper sip his drink. Charlie sensed another string of colourful profanities about to be launched into the dawning sky.

"What in blue blazes is _this?"_

"I'll have you know that is one of Britain' prize-winning English breakfast teas." Charlie was getting somewhat tired of Harper's constant harping.

"Tea? Tea! Ain't no wonder we fought for independence. Tea. Sherry. What's wrong with coffee and whiskey? You sure got some learnin' to do if ya wanna live in the west."

"Are you always like this in the morning?"

"Like what?"

"So disagreeable."

"No I ain't. I usually got a real happy disposition in the mornin'," Jess lied through his teeth.

"It just don't make for a good morning when a man wakes up after bein' taken at gun point from a saloon where he was quietly mindin' his own business. And I ain't real cheerful, neither, when I just got a bullet cut outta me by some fella who ain't a doctor. And then I get handed a brew and it ain't even coffee!"

Charlie heaved a nice big lungful of air, hoping that once breathed in it would spread through his body and morph into tolerance. He had no idea Americans could be so difficult. Not once, in all the dime novels he'd read had there been a character capable of mounting a campaign of complaints the way Harper could.

Charlie could see no useful purpose in buying into the man's tirade of self pity so instead he went about the business of serving up breakfast for himself and his casualty.

Morgan was rather surprised when Harper offered up a quiet thanks and nothing more as he handed him the plate of bacon and beans. Charles on the other hand was turning over some of the recently learned profanities in his mind and testing them out quietly on his tongue. Beans, while imagined, had been a pure gift from God. In reality they had a nasty habit of repeating on one's constitution and swirling up a most indelicate amount of rumbling in a person's digestive system whereby they made an awfully embarrassing noise in their pursuit of freedom.

What Charlie wouldn't give now for a nice soft-boiled egg and two rounds of toast fingers spread with butter and some of his mother's homemade cumquat marmalade. Oh and real milk in his tea. 'As it comes' always sounded so macho to Charlie in his cowboy books. ' _How would ya like yer coffee?' 'As it comes.'_ What an impossibly manly ring that had to it. But Charlie didn't like coffee as it comes or tea either for that matter. Milk and two sugars had always served him well and Charlie was discovering he was somewhat a creature of habit.

Harper on the other hand was slurping beans and bacon into his mouth as fast as he could make his one good hand operate. He'd even succumbed to the dreaded tea, swigging it back whenever he saw fit to come up for air between mouthfuls of food. Charlie thought Jess Harper was truly a remarkable man. He obviously had a stomach of cast iron.

"So, Morgan... you gonna tell me what you're doin' out here?"

Charlie looked up from where he'd been making creative art designs out of the beans on his plate and with barely a note of hesitation said, "Making a complete cock-up of things."

Jess raised an eyebrow. "You wanna explain that?"

"Like I need to?" Charlie discovered feeling sorry for one's self seemed to be contagious.

"You mean things ain't going exactly as planned?" Jess let out a humourless huff. "No argument there."

"Hmph." Charlie had no answer to that.

"Just so ya know... I did some scoutin' around out there before. Ain't no bodies, but there's a trail of blood. Seems ya mighta winged one of them fellas last night."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Charlie pushed the beans around a little more and then took to sawing a piece of bacon with his fork.

"No... but it means we gotta break camp and get outta here. More'n likely they'll be back and I ain't in the mood for sittin' around and waitin' to be used as target practice again."

Harper had a point. In fact Harper was proving to be rather good at this cowboy way of life. 'Course, he _was_ a cowboy... that helped. But it was more than that... Harper was turning out to be the real deal. Larger than life... well... certainly larger than fiction. Charlie couldn't imagine, despite all the times he'd read it in a book, just what it must have taken for Harper to lay still and let him cut into that wound last night. Without the aid of chloroform or laudanum. And now... there he was... up and about and eating breakfast and planning their escape... acting like nothing had happened. Except for that ghastly pallor to his skin and the fine sheen of perspiration coating his brow, you'd swear he was feeling no pain at all.

"Did ya hear me, Morgan? I said we need to get movin'."

"Yeah... yeah, I heard you. Are you sure you're up to riding?"

"I'll manage. 'Sides, it ain't like we got a lot of choice."

"No. I suppose not."

"I see ya got the saddles off the horses. Looks like ya moved 'em to where they could get some feed, too."

"Yeah."

"Morgan? You did good."

Charlie hadn't seen that one coming. Harper giving him praise? He thought he might just bust wide open with the shock of it. As it was he found himself turning the words over in his head, examining them for any kind of ambiguous meaning, any hint of sarcasm, any secret code for _'you're a complete Wally',_ but... Charles couldn't see one. In fact he thought Harper had been deadly serious. Well, well, Charlie couldn't help one more little taste... _You. Did. Good._ He wasrelishing every word and feeling quite chuffed with himself. _I did good._ A slow, self-satisfied smile spread across Charlie's face.

"Don't let it go to your head, Morgan. We still gotta get those saddles back on 'em."

And that turned out to be a far bigger ordeal than either of them anticipated.

sssSSSsss

Jess's food-high was beginning to wear off. Watching Morgan's clumsy attempts at saddling both mounts had steadily stoked a fire in his chimney and he was about ready to blow his stack.

"Ya ever saddle a horse before?" He squeezed out through tightly clenched teeth.

Charles could think of no such instance in his life that even remotely came close to saddling up a horse. He'd been doing his darnedest to try and recall in reverse order all the steps he had gone through to get the blasted things off the horses in the first place. So far that hadn't exactly been going as well as he'd hoped and Harper's constant haranguing was giving him a severe case of performance anxiety.

Jess was pacing in tight circles, his good hand clenching and unclenching as his impatience with Morgan grew. Twice he'd tried to help but both attempts had resulted in the wound in his shoulder tearing and his vision clouding with grey.

At the rate Morgan was movin' they'd still be here at sunset.

"Can't you go any faster?"

Charlie drew a deep breath and pulled hard on the cinch.

Right now, while dealing with saddle slippage and horse bloating and Harper's constant criticism under the guise of instruction, Charles was running a continuous mantra through his mind. _Don't hit Harper, don't hit Harper, don't hit Harper._ Charles was not a violent man by nature but blast it all, the image of Harper sitting on his arse with a fist-sized imprint embedded in his jaw was looking more and more tempting by the second.

"I'm... going... as... fast... as... I... can." _There got it!_ Charlie's horse was done. Now on to Harper's.

"Ya gotta sweet talk him when yer tuggin' on the cinch. And he don't like ya to pull too hard on the first try. Just ease the latigo through the dee ring... not too tight at first. Then ya gotta wait a minute, till he lets his breath out. He don't like to be rushed."

 _He don't like to be rushed._

Fine.

"Did ya check him for burrs 'fore ya put the blanket on him?"

"Yes. You asked me that before."

"Just makin' sure."

Fine.

Charlie lifted the saddle ready to throw it on the horse's back. _Blimey, it's a lot heavier going up than coming down._ He ever so gently placed the saddle over the blanket.

"He's a horse, not a kitten. He ain't gonna break when you put the saddle on."

 _More noise from the peanut gallery._

Fine.

"They didn't teach ya how to cinch up a horse in all that book learnin' ya done?"

"Apparently not to _your_ satisfaction."

"Whats that s'posed to mean?"

"Whatever you want it to. Now how about shutting up and letting me get on with it!"

"Well hurry up, will ya. Them fellas'll likely be back 'fore we get a chance to hit the trail."

That was it. Even a man as mild-mannered as Charles Morgan could only take so much. Fist clenched into a firm ball and muscles strung tighter than a fiddler's bow, Charlie turned on Harper ready to let him have it.

But on coming face to face with the object of his wrath, Charlie pulled up short...

Once when Charles was in his teens he'd found an injured fox in the woods. The animal had growled and yapped and screamed in an effort to keep him at a safe distance, but Charlie had persevered, wooing the fox into submission and eventually winning his trust.

One look at Harper's dishevelled state - the sweat beading on his forehead and plastering his hair against his brow, the sunken sallow cheeks and the pasty colour of his skin stark against the shadow of his unshaven jaw - and it was all beginning to make sense. Harper was behaving like a wounded animal... all bluster and bravado in an attempt not to show any weakness. The man was out on his feet, swaying dangerously and there was blood seeping through the underwear bandage tied across his shoulder.

"You look like shite, Harper."

Jess's lip curled, ready to snarl his response, but instead he took two staggering steps towards Charlie, eyes narrowed and left hand held out in front to keep his balance.

"You done with them horses, yet?"

"You're bleeding again." Charlie stated the obvious.

"Figured as much."

In fact Jess had figured that out at least thirty minutes ago. He could feel the blood oozing from the bullet wound, warm and sticky as it made an uncomfortable path down his arm. And Jess knew from experience that if they didn't get on the trail soon, it was going to take more than will power to keep him in the saddle.

"You better let me check the bandage."

"NO! We gotta get movin'. The way I figure it, we'll stick to the Laramie road. That'll be the quickest way... and the easiest. Then, if anything happens... if... if you need to get there on your own, all ya gotta do is follow the road to town. Now... you ready?"

Charlie was resigned to the fact Harper was in no mood to accept help. Peripherally, Charles did wonder what Harper meant when he suggested he might have to get to Laramie on his own. But for now he was more concerned about getting the man and then himself on their respective mounts. Charlie's rear end still hadn't forgiven him for not accepting the offered liniment last night.

sssSSSsss

Jess attempted to mount his horse with one quick hop but failed miserably, finally making it into the saddle the more conventional way. Charlie had to admit it sorely lacked any of the grace he'd witnessed the previous night. Still, he couldn't help but be impressed by the fact Harper could mount his horse at all. And this set Charlie's mind to wondering just how much practice Harper had had at being shot. He could still see in his mind's eye, the vast quantity of scars adorning the upper half of Harper's torso.

Charles followed suit with the traditional method of mounting, deciding that the skip-hop was something he needed to practice in private. Now was not the appropriate time to be repeating his face-planting performance.

Although fighting the pain of his bullet wound and still trying to formulate a viable plan to avoid those no-goods, Jess couldn't help but harbour a niggling seed of curiosity. _What in the Sam Hill had possessed Morgan to pass himself off as a bounty hunter?_ Sure, there was the obvious answer... the bounty, but why was he in Wyoming in the first place? In fact what had driven the man to leave the comfort of his homeland in favour of the hardships of the west?

"I asked ya earlier, Morgan, but ya still ain't answered me. What are ya doin' out in these parts?"

Charlie observed the man whom he'd taken prisoner less than twenty-four hours ago. The man who now, thanks to him, was sitting awkwardly slumped in the saddle, still losing blood, his smart mouth set tight and his eyes squinting against the morning glare and probably the pain in his shoulder. Charlie thought about the question and how to answer it without exposing more of his shortcomings and further cementing the view he expected Harper had of him... _that he was a complete twit_. For some reason it mattered to Charlie that he'd created a less than sterling impression in Harper's eyes. And he wondered why this man's opinion mattered to him.

"It's a long story, Harper."

"We got time. Less'n them fellas come back quicker'n I was hopin'." Jess would have preferred to travel the back trails, keeping to the small stands of trees and the folds in the land. The road was leaving him feeling awful exposed. But he wasn't kidding when he'd said to Charlie about making it on his own. The way he was leaking blood, he couldn't be sure how much staying power he had in him. By now he was pretty sure Slim would be looking for him. He just hoped someone had seen them head west and not assumed they'd gone east to Cheyenne.

"I wanted to start a new life out here. Become a rancher. Experience some of those adventures I've only ever read about in books. When that marshal in Cheyenne approached me... it seemed like a legitimate way of earning a quid so I could get started." Charlie huffed a humourless laugh. "He made it sound so easy."

"Ain't no such thing as a free lunch, Morgan. There's always someone waitin' to collect."

"So it would seem." Charlie was fast coming to the realisation that maybe the things he'd read in his books weren't all they were cracked up to be. He wondered about Harper... his toughness, his survival skills... were they taught or instinct? If Charlie lived out West long enough, would he become as adept as Harper at learning to survive? Could he develop those same instincts? Or would he have to have his name on a 'wanted' poster to qualify? Charlie's thirst for knowledge pushed him towards his next question.

"So, Harper... what do you do when you're not outlawing and getting your face plastered all over a wanted poster? Or are you still in that line of business?"

"No I ain't! I paid for my mistakes. And that poster you got off McCann? I was cleared of that charge."

Charlie didn't miss the defensive tone in Harper's voice.

"I'm a rancher. Help run a relay station with a fella named Slim Sherman. He and I been partners for a couple a years now."

 _Slim Sherman._ Charlie knew that name.

"Sherman. He a tall, lanky fellow? Blond hair, slim build?" _Hence the name,_ Charlie deduced.

Jess's eyes turned menacing, at least what Charlie could make out through the squint. Hurting he might be but there was nothing wrong with the man's reflexes. Before Charlie even had time to draw breath, Jess had his horse up hard against Morgan's smaller pinto, reins dropped and grabbing a handful of shirt in his left hand, upsetting Charlie's already precarious balance in the saddle.

"Whadda ya done to him, Morgan?"

Charlie was somewhat taken aback. In fact he was hugely affronted and extremely terrified by both the question and the way Harper was threatening to haul him out of the saddle.

"I haven't done anything to him. I passed through the relay station from Cheyenne on the way to Laramie. He and some young lad there helped that old geezer driving the stage to change the horses."

"If I find you been lyin' to me Morgan, there ain't gonna be a hole deep enough you can crawl into."

"I told you. I didn't do anything other than say cheerio."

Jess held onto Morgan's shirt little longer, eyes boring into Charlie's looking for any sign of deception. A few seconds later he released his grip and a short, sharp breath. Then without another word, took up the reins and with a quick jab of spurs to flank, urged his horse forward.

Charlie sat stunned, wondering just what the hell had happened. Who was that Sherman character that Harper would get so riled up on his behalf? So they were business partners - but obviously the chappy meant a lot to Harper.

Charles kicked his own mount into action and trotted... in a manner of speaking, after Jess.

"Harper! Wait up!"

Charlie had a problem. In their more generous moments his family referred to it as charming, endearing... or even quirky. The less charitable were more inclined to call it an 'affliction.' There were times when both camps joined forces and thought it might be a nice idea if someone stuffed a sock into Charlie's mouth with an aim to restoring a little peace and quiet.

His family and friends blamed all that book-reading that went on at Charles' work place for the 'problem'. It wasn't normal for a man to consume the amount of written words Charlie did and not suffer some kind of literacy overload. The words were bound to get choked up in a fellow's mind. It was only fair and reasonable that at some point the backlog of information had to come out from somewhere. You simply couldn't keep feeding the brain without the use of any kind of release valve.

Chuck wasn't always aware of when an episode was about to attack. He did know that stress or excitement were two of the main triggers. Over the past twenty-four hours Charlie had had enough excitement to last him several lifetimes and a whole library's worth of dime-novel adventures. In the back of his mind, he could feel words bubbling to the surface. Words of no real relevance were just busting to make themselves known to the closest possible ear.

As he pulled up beside Jess, Morgan had a sudden explosive attack of verbal diarrhoea.

He prattled on about his life in Surrey, England. About the weather, how cold and miserable it was in winter and the scorching fifty-five degrees of summer. He described the architecture of his quaint little cottage and that of the houses in the next seven counties.

Charles explained the history of the isosceles triangle, Newton's law of motion, Galileo's controversial theory of heliocentrism, how the correct name for a biscuit was actually 'scone' and proceeded to divulge his mother's secret recipe.

He then went on to sport. Explaining everything he'd ever read in any book about the history, the rules and every member of all the teams and the victors for the past five years of his much-loved game of rugby.

Charlie was a fine athlete, having been crowned Surrey County's chess champion six years running. He was captain of his local chess team and had trained vigorously three times a day, every day come rain, hail or shine. Charlie knew many tactical moves on how to slay an opponent in the shortest possible time and revealed each and every one of them to Jess in extraordinarily graphic detail. He then enquired of Jess whether he liked to play, earning him a quiet grunt and a loud greasy glare in response.

Charlie's mind was full of many wondrous things all clamouring and fighting to make themselves known to his captive audience of one.

Jess had never been all that fond of book-learning. Sure, there was a time and a place when a book could be a right handy piece of equipment. The heavier ones could sure knock the stuffing clean out of a spider in no time at all. Jess would never begrudge another man the learning experience of reading a book. Why, there was many a night when he was content to sit and work a fine piece of leather into a brand new belt while Slim read out loud to him and Andy. But Jess preferred the more 'hands on' kind of education.

Right at that moment Jess was feeling a real need to hands-on educate Charlie Morgan... with his left fist.

"Morgan... ain't it enough you got me shot at, then carved me up like a Christmas goose? Now you wanna talk me to death? Will ya just shut up!"

Charlie didn't like being told to shut up. It brought back terrible childhood memories of when his grandmother, exhausted by the young Charles' constant nattering, had told him to go and talk to the wall. And he had. Well, he'd never managed to live _that_ down and William had grabbed every available opportunity to remind Charlie of what a complete prat he was to engage the living room wall in a deep and meaningful one-way conversation.

Charlie thought he might just give Harper 'what for' but then he realised that up ahead the horizon had taken on a whole new slant. Literally. He couldn't quite figure out why the foothills in the distance where now sitting on an awkward forty-five degree angle... and growing more acute by the second.

A loud sudden thump and a round of muttered cursing, some of the words fondly familiar, brought Jess's head up with a snap from where his chin had been lolling against his chest.

 _What the...?_

"Morgan, whadda ya doin' down there?"

Charlie Morgan was face first in the dirt, one leg still dangling from the stirrup and body oddly twisted in a semi spread-eagled pattern on the ground while his saddle was upside down under his horse's belly.

 _If I_ _ **knew**_ _what I was doing down here, then I bloody well wouldn't be here!_

"Just thought I'd take a little rest, Harper. What the bloody hell do you think I'm doing down here?"

"Lookin' for yer rowel?"

"Ha ha. Oh, you're hilarious."

Charlie rolled over, untangled his foot from the stirrup, climbed to his feet and dusted himself off.

"Told ya to make sure the cinch was tight. Betch'ya didn't wait for her to release her breath, did ya?"

Under different circumstances Charlie might have been tempted to argue with Harper, but the man looked half-dead and that patch of red on his shirt was still growing.

Charles had always been a keen gardener. His knowledge of plant propagation was extensive. In the last two years he had studied hard on the type of plant- life suitable for America's west. He had all the latest horticultural techniques locked up solid in his memory ready to be drawn on when he eventually had the cash together to purchase his own piece of land.

But right now, Charles was feeling a need to make an early withdrawal on some of the information he had stored in his head. He headed straight for the shelf entitled natural herbal remedies because Charlie was a whiz in the practice of Native American medicine. He'd experimented on himself several times back home in Surrey only landing in hospital five times and jail that once.

One look at Harper and it was obvious the man was in desperate need of some more doctoring and Charles was more than happy to oblige.

Charlie's plans for Harper were percolating around in his head, forming themselves into tactical manoeuvres as he realigned his saddle, and tightened the cinch. This time making sure Edwina, his sweet little pinto, had let out all of her breath.

Saddle cinched, his clothes dusted off one more time, Charlie was just about to remount when he heard a soft groan coming from where Jess was sitting, more or less, in his saddle.

"Harper, you look positively ghastly. I suggest we take a break here and let me tend to that wound."

Jess's answer was a resounding thwack as he slid unceremoniously from his horse and landed sprawled on the ground at Charlie's feet. _Blimey, he even falls off his horse impressively._ Charlie felt a sudden, unreasonable pang of plummet-envy.

"Harper?"

No response.

 _Bugger!_

Charlie grabbed the canteen from his saddle horn and knelt beside Jess, gently rolling him onto his back.

"Harper. Can you hear me?"

Jess was aware of a hand shaking him, of a hard surface beneath him, of an awful burning throb in his shoulder, of the fact that he was no longer sitting his horse and of someone talking to him. He opened his mouth to answer only to have it filled with warm, canteen-tainted water.

When the coughing had subsided and he could take a breath without wheezing, Jess opened up with both barrels blazing...

"Whadda ya doin'?"

"I thought you were dead."

"Well I will be if ya keep that up." Jess pushed himself up on one elbow, eyeing the close proximity of his horse's two front legs, the dry dusty ground beneath him and the panicked expression on Morgan's face. "What am I doin' down here?"

"Looking for your rowel?"

Jess threw a stony glare in Morgan's direction. "Help me up."

"Harper."

"What?"

"We've got company."

Charlie hauled Jess up by his left arm, staring into the distance and taking note of the dust being kicked up by several horses, but unable to make out exactly how many. An uneasy feeling started to make itself known deep in the pit of his stomach and Charles wondered if maybe that was a small seed of his longed-for instinct starting to take root.

"Do you think it's those fellows from last night?"

"I dunno. But I ain't waitin' around to get my head blowed off to find out. Mount up."

"Where are we going?"

Charlie watched as Jess fought to get his bearings, swaying unsteadily on his feet. Chuck reached out to help, but Jess swatted the proffered hand away, choosing to take a firm white-knuckled grip of the saddle horn instead.

Blinking against the morning glare and the building headache behind his eyes, Jess scanned the lay of the land. He couldn't be sure, but if he had to guess, he reckoned those fellas approaching from the east were more'n likely the same ones from the night before. The dust cloud was clearing and there was something suspicious about the way they sat their horses, the way they were riding with purpose, cutting across country instead of following the road.

"Morgan... we gotta get off this road 'fore them riders catch up with us."

Charlie watched as Harper mounted his horse, not sure if the man would make it and thoroughly impressed when he did.

Edwina stood patiently while Charles fumbled his way into the saddle, and then dug his heels ever so gently into her side to encourage her forward. Edwina had the hang of Charlie now. She had pretty much worked out the man had not a clue when it came to horse sense, but she'd dealt with greenhorns before and could usually work out what was required all on her own.

She made her way to Jess's big bay and ambled along beside him. There seemed to be a sense of urgency in the air but both riders were apparently content to stick to a walk. Mild curiosity had her wondering why.

"There ain't a lot of cover around here but if we can make it to them rocks over there, maybe it'll buy us some time."

Charlie followed the direction of Jess's pointed finger.

The road back to Laramie was just as Charlie had imagined from his books. Miles and miles of grassy plains... small undulating hills - barely more than mounds really - could be seen in the distance, with the occasional dip in the land and sprinklings of rocky outcrops erupting upwards in small clusters off to the side. Charles liked this country... the land, the air - he was determined to make it his own. But first, Harper had to get him out of this beastly mess he seemed to have found himself in... except the way Harper was looking he wasn't holding out a lot of hope.

"What about over there, Harper? A tad further along. See that butt?"

Jess had a headache. His shoulder throbbed and burned, even his fingers were swollen, but at least he could feel them... although he wasn't so sure he was real pleased about that. But his ears were fine... or so he thought. _Did Morgan just say he could see a 'butt' in the distance?_

"You hit yer head when ya fell off ya horse?"

"I'm perfectly fine, what are you on about?"

"Can't think of no other reason ya'd be imaginin' things that ain't there."

"Harper, I know you're hurt, but I am most certainly not imagining things. I know a butt when it's staring me in the face and there's one right over there."

This time Jess followed the line of sight Charlie was pointing towards.

"Morgan that's a butte. What's wrong with ya?"

"It certainly is a beaut. My point exactly. It would make an excellent hiding place."

"No Morgan, it's a 'BEWT'!"

"I'm agreeing with you. It will make fine cover."

"It ain't a butt!"

"It most certainly is. I'd know a butt anywhere."

"I bet you would. But we ain't goin' there. It's a whole lot further'n it looks. And I ain't got a lot a ridin' left in me. Now let's get goin'.

Charles didn't like to lose an argument but he had the distinct feeling he'd just been stonewalled by Harper. The man was clearly confused. Although it wasn't surprising, the way he was still leaking blood.

Charles could argue the toss with the best of them. He had quite a reputation back home. He was renowned throughout the foggy dales of England as one who could beat an argument into submission until it folded on bended knees and begged for mercy. Charlie did not like to see an argument simply mount a horse and ride away and he made a solemn promise to himself; as soon as Harper was well enough, he'd be broaching the butt topic with renewed gusto until it, too, begged for forgiveness and admitted defeat. He'd teach Harper a thing or two about the advantage of a big butt.

"Come on, Morgan! We're gonna have to push harder if we wanna be out of sight 'fore them fellas catch up. Now do ya think ya can manage to stay in the saddle?"

"I could ask the same of you."

Jess shot a withering look at Charlie. "Let's go."

Much to Jess's relief they made it to the rocks without further incident, Charlie even managing to encourage little Edwina to a full gallop and remain seated.

But his relief was short-lived. A quick glance back at the dust cloud of riders sent his heart plummeting...

"Take the horses and hide them behind those rocks over there, then get yerself back here and give me a hand."

Morgan watched Harper dismount and then struggle to free his gun from its holster with his left hand. Jess staggered towards a particularly large boulder and settled himself behind it. Charlie didn't miss the sigh of relief, the grimace and the way he gingerly lowered himself down. A cold hard lump of fear sat heavy in Charlie's guts. Harper was about done in. The underwear wrapped around his shoulder and the top of his makeshift sling were soaked with blood, his face a sickly shade of grey and heavy droplets of what Charlie suspected to be fever-sweat ran freely down the side of his face.

"Harper..."

"What are ya waiting for? Get them horses hid and get yourself over here!"

Charlie nodded, and did as he was told, tethering the horses loosely around a small sagebrush.

By the time Charlie returned, Harper had set himself up, gun held in left hand resting on the flat surface of a rock, eyes narrowed, peering hard into the distance. Charlie took up position beside him.

The riders had picked up speed and Morgan could clearly make out six men... all armed. Two with rifles and four with six-shooters – all of them at the ready. Charlie's own gunbelt was empty of bullets. Harper had a few rounds left in his.

"Morgan... I want ya to do somethin'. I want ya to take your horse and head on to Laramie..."

"What?"

"One of us needs to go for help. I ain't in any shape to ride... but sittin' here I can keep 'em busy while you make yer run. Head straight to Laramie... find the sheriff, Mort Corey..."

"Don't be ridiculous, Harper. You're in no condition to take on those six gunmen. They're all armed and you've only got a few bullets left."

"It ain't gonna do nobody no good for both of us to get killed... I can't make it with this shoulder, but I can keep them fellas busy while ya go for help. Now get goin', will ya?"

Harper was right; it would serve no useful purpose for them both to be killed although it went against every grain of decency Charlie possessed. But they needed help and he _was_ the best one equipped for the job. By Jove, he would go, and he would bring back help and he'd jolly well save Jess Harper if it was the last thing he did. Which he sincerely hoped it wouldn't be.

Charlie gathered Edwina's reins and led her back to where Harper was hunkered down behind the rock. He could have sworn the man had paled even more in the time it took to retrieve his horse. Hesitating, Charlie scanned the lay of the land...

"Morgan. You got any shells in that gun you're totin'?"

Charles never had been a good liar. How could he with all those pesky little tell-tale signs just begging to give him away? His ears would shine as bright as a burning ember and sweat would burst across his skin and drip from his chin. And then there was that cursed stuttering and loathsome shifting from one foot to the other, making Charlie as easy to read as a prep school alphabet book.

He'd barely opened his mouth to lie through his teeth before he felt his ears grow hot, and sweat bead across his forehead. It pooled in a soggy mess under his arms and trickled down his back. But Charles stoically pushed forward with his big fat porky. "Of course it's loaded. What would be the point of walking around with an empty gun?"

"Toss it here."

"Harper..."

"I said, 'toss it here!'"

Shuffling his feet and steadfastly controlling the quivering of his jaw, Charles drew his gun from its holster and handed it to Jess.

"Kinda light, ain't it?" Without waiting for a reply, Jess swapped the gun to his right hand, pulled six of the precious bullets from his belt and proceeded to load the chambers.

"Harper! What are you doing?"

"What's it look like?"

"Behaving like a complete fool."

"Ain't much use pullin' a gun if you ain't got nothing to shoot out of it."

Harper had a point. Again.

"I know there ain't a lot up top when it comes to direction... but ya gotta head due east..." Jess lifted his left hand and pointed towards the foothills. "Keep the sun over yer right shoulder..."

"You mean I won't be following the road?"

"Not unless ya want company... Keep to the folds in the land, that'll give ya some cover, least for some of the way. You should hit the Laramie road again in a couple a miles. Once yer on the road it'll take ya to town."

Charles was listening, but he kept one eye on the approaching dust cloud of gunmen.

"Harper. Those riders are getting nearer."

"We got time... now ya got all what I just told ya?"

''Head east. Sun on right. Laramie road two miles ahead. I think so."

Jess blew out a long puff of air and let his eyes slide slowly shut. "Good. Now get goin'"

"Harper... I..."

"Morgan, anyone ever tell ya you talk too much?"

Charlie huffed quietly. "Once or twice."

"Well, shut up will ya? And go get us some help."

sssSSSsss

Edwina seemed to sense Charlie's urgency. She took extra special care navigating the rocky slope as she cautiously picked her way towards the grassy plains below. She felt Charlie sitting tight in the saddle, working the reins like a professional. And she liked it.

"Come on, old girl. We've got a task to complete." Charlie pressed his knees into Edwina's sides, stretched his legs forward in the stirrups and loosened off the reins as they manoeuvred through the rocky trail weaving between two small mounds of grassy hillside.

They had almost reached the bottom when Charlie heard the first shot ring out. He froze. Edwina froze. And then a second report echoed and bounced along the shallow canyon he'd been following.

 _Sod it!_ Charlie remembered Harper's pale, drawn face, his sweat-soaked hair and yes, he had also noted the tremble in the man's hand when he'd reloaded the gun. Harper couldn't possibly hold off those outlaws alone.

Running was not the cowboy way. It was not how things were done in his precious novels. Harper was as tough and resilient as any of the heroes in those make-believe western adventures... but Harper was hurt. Badly hurt and he was not a fictional character. There wouldn't be some writer's pen stroke with a miraculous solution to save the day. But could he, Charlie Morgan really be of any help? Harper knew this country; he wouldn't have sent him on a wild goose chase, would he? Or maybe he would. Blast it all... Should he go back? Or head to town like Harper had insisted?

Charlie was stuck in a quagmire of indecision. However, he hadn't bargained on the cavalcade of backed up logic about to take control and put an immediate stop to his propensity for overthinking a situation

Charlie's thoughts, armed with conviction, formed themselves into rank and file and marched across his centre of reasoning like an army heading to war. With a whole Sunday sermon's worth of wordy ammunition, the army systematically shot down all the excuses Harper had given for making it appear like it was okay to run.

' _Get help.'_ **THWACK!** There wouldn't be any use in bringing help back to a corpse.

' _No need for both of us getting killed.'_ **THWACK!** No point _anyone_ getting killed.

 _Bring Sheriff Corey._ **THWACK!** Why? To dig a grave? To help tie Harper's body across his horse for burial in Laramie?

A small skirmish broke out as Charlie weighed up his options, but the niggling doubts preventing him returning to Harper were quickly laid to rest as his army of logic pushed harder through the enemy line of indecision. With bayonets drawn and the troops ready to attack, Charlie soon reached the inevitable conclusion and launched into action.

"YAH! Come on, horse, get moving!" Charlie dug his heels hard into little Edwina's flanks, at the same time jerking the reins, pulling her head around until she was facing the direction they'd come from.

"YAAAH!" He yelled again and Edwina broke into a steady lope, expertly renegotiating the trail just ridden and this time avoiding unnecessary caution. She understood her rider's commands, and she meant to carry them out. After all, two days of fluffing around with this strange man in her saddle had left her with a real need to blow away the cobwebs. A horse needed to run, and run she would.

Charles' arse was terribly impressed with the way it now sat steady and firm in the rig. Yesterday's bouncing and slipping was nothing but a vicious memory as Charlie now rode like he'd been born to the saddle.

Morgan's heart, however, was pounding for all it was worth, hammering hard against his rib cage while fear kept a knotted presence firm across his shoulders and hands wrapped tight around the reins. Sweat flew from his brow and dripped from his chin, foam pooled across Edwina's chest, little flecks flying off and occasionally catching Charlie in the eye.

But Charlie saw the bigger picture. His mind was firmly set on saving Harper. This is what men of the west do. They don't abandon their mates, they stand by them. When he thought about how things were, it wasn't just a cowboy-code; it was his code as well.

sssSSSsss

The mid-morning sun beat a soothing warmth where Jess was hunkered behind his rock. The heat soaked into the faded denim of his shirt but failed to reach that bone-deep chill within. He shivered miserably with a cold that wouldn't be eased. Fever-sweat ran along the side of his face, stung his eyes as he struggled to focus on the approaching gunmen.

Jess didn't like to complain – not really – but, dadgum, he'd sure had better days! Truth-facing was not his strong point, leastways not when it came to his health and well-being. And a big fat moment of truth was slapping him hard across the face with a little too much enthusiasm for his liking.

Sending Morgan away had not been one of his more noteworthy acts of brilliance. At the time he couldn't see any other way around it. They needed help and he knew he couldn't ride. In his present state he'd only slow Morgan down, although from what he'd seen of Morgan's riding ability so far, he couldn't imagine it being possible to slow the man down any more.

As it turned out, Morgan had only been gone a few minutes before those riders picked up their pace. Jess held his fire for as long as he could, waiting until he was certain of making the shot count.

While not the deadly marksman he would normally be with his right hand, Jess was good enough to at least do some damage with his left.

Perched in his lofty position among rocks and shrubs and overlooking the flat plains below, Jess wondered how long it would be 'fore them no-goods had him placed and opened up on him.

The answer came sooner than he'd hoped. A sliver of rock kicked up from behind about the same time as he heard the shot. And then another bullet whizzed past his ear; a little too close for comfort.

The riders were gaining. Jess reckoned them to be maybe a quarter mile away, still too far for him to make good a shot of his own. He figured they were only guessing where he was hiding and he sure as heck wasn't about to give anything away by firing prematurely.

Jess didn't like surprises. Although, strictly speaking that wasn't exactly true. He did kind of get a kick out of Slim giving him a present that first Christmas he'd spent at the Sherman ranch. Knowing how Slim had that big ol' streak of generosity tattooed across his heart, Jess had armed himself with a retaliatory gift of his own, just on the off chance Slim came through.

And when he thought about it, he did quite like those occasions when he bit into one of Daisy's apple pies and discovered she'd added a handful of blackberries to give the pie an extra flavour boost. Then there were those times when Andy made surprise visits home from St Louis, or his favourite laying hen supplied him with a double yoker and there was that one time he'd thrown down four cards in poker and been dealt four aces in return. Yeah, that was a real nice surprise.

But it was those other surprises he didn't take a leanin' to. The click of a hammer being cocked while in a dark alley, a spider bedded down deep in the toe of one of his favourite boots, a fallen tree across the road when riding shotgun on the stage, wanted posters pulled from some Limey greenhorn's pocket, tea instead of coffee, sherry instead of whiskey... a horse's hooves thundering up behind him. Like right at that moment.

Jess whirled at the sound of an approaching animal, the sudden movement tearing at the wound in his shoulder so hard that for a few seconds a misty cloud of grey fluttered across his vision. He pulled up his left hand, taking aim, ready to separate rider from mount with one squeeze of the trigger.

"Harper! Harper! It's me. Don't shoot."

Jess knew he was hallucinating. He'd had these terrible fever dreams before where things from his past would come out to haunt him in the early hours of the morning while his temperature soared and his body shook with chills. And now it was happening again.

"Harper! I'm here to help."

 _Morgan?_ No, it couldn't be. He should be halfway to Laramie by now. But then the apparition dismounted and fell flat on its face. One foot caught by a spur in the stirrup.

 _Dang blame it all. What in the Sam Hill was_ _ **he**_ _doing here?_

"Morgan! Whadda ya doin' back?"

"I've come to save you." Charlie replied, spitting out a mouthful of dirt.

Jess called on his colourful vocabulary, threw an earful at Charlie then ducked as another bullet ricocheted off his hiding rock.

"Morgan, get up and get yer ass over here. Less'n ya wanna be stoppin' a bullet of yer own. And get that horse hid."

Jess turned to face the gunmen, ready to offer Charlie some cover. Those fellas were in easy range now but Jess knew once he fired off his first shot they'd have his position pegged.

However, with Morgan there, he automatically had ammunition replenishment so he led off with three shots in quick succession, hoping Morgan was taking advantage of the distraction. He fired off the first round and saw the lead gunman flinch, tense and then slide bonelessly from the saddle.

One down.

Shots two and three went wild.

"Morgan! What's keepin' ya?" The question was barely out before Jess heard a shot sound out from behind him. _Now what?_ Turning, he was just in time to see Morgan cock the hammer in preparation to fire a second time.

Charles was on his stomach, arms outstretched in front and .45 balanced in both hands. He fired his second round, resulting in a loud bellow of pain and a distressed whinny as horse and rider slid to ground some twenty yards from their location.

Jess and Charlie locked eyes for a split second, acknowledging how close that sidewinder had got before taking a hit.

It was just a moment, but it cemented a common bond of camaraderie. One which Charlie could only ever have dreamed of.

Jess turned back and resumed firing on the men approaching from below. A quick head count gave him four riders still heading their way. Steadying his hand on the flattened surface of his hiding rock, Jess took careful aim, picking off another rider. In a windmill of arms and legs he left his horse and rolled to a stop hard up against a juniper tree.

Three down.

Charlie was beside Jess now, both men firing at the remaining three riders.

Jess's shots petered out to a disturbing metallic click and he took a moment to reload. Charlie figured he only had two rounds left in his own cylinder if he'd counted correctly.

Charlie watched as those pack of no-goods finally figured out it would be a better idea to find some cover instead of getting picked off one at a time out in the open. The men found their own small outcropping about a hundred yards below and wasted no time disappearing between two tall boulders.

Jess fumbled awkwardly with his left hand to reload. Frustration, fever and the unfamiliar feel of jamming bullets into chambers with his less dominant hand had him cussing up a storm.

Charles was offering up his own litany of less than desirable words. He knew he had to hold his fire while Jess reloaded and the seconds seemed to drag on for hours. Finally, Harper was back up beside him.

"Any sign of 'em?"

"Not since they disappeared behind those rocks."

"I don't like it. They're too quiet." Jess swiped his sleeve across his brow, chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip. "You wait here. I'm gonna see if I can draw their fire."

Charlie's initial impulse was to argue. Harper looked as if he was wrestling with the Grim Reaper and about to go down for the count. How he was even managing to stay on his feet Charlie could only imagine. But Harper had the right instincts, and something told Morgan that Harper had been in situations like this on more than one occasion.

"How many slugs you got left?"

"Two, I think."

"Thinkin' ain't good enough. You better reload 'fore I go. I got four bullets on my belt. Take 'em."

"But... what about..."

"Take 'em!"

Charles did as he was told and filled the cylinder with the last of Jess's bullets.

"Be ready to fire if they show 'emselves. And Morgan... make sure of yer shot."

Charlie gulped and felt a new burst of perspiration break out across his brow. Western adventures close up weren't half as much fun as on the printed page.

Jess saw the fear shine bright in Morgan's eyes and the tense set to his jaw, but for some reason he had faith in his tangle-footed, greenhorn Limey. In a clumsy, klutzy kind of way he had proved himself to be a formidable ally. Although, as Jess had to keep reminding himself, if it weren't for Morgan, he wouldn't be needin' an ally.

"HARPER! Look out!"

Jess was broken out of his reverie at the sound of Morgan's voice and a hefty shove against his injured shoulder. In a red haze of pain, Jess hit the ground hard, hearing two shots fired as he went down.

Charles had caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. A flash of red-checked flannel and tan Stetson was all he saw but his mind processed what was happening in that split second. One of those fellows had made his way up to their hiding place, climbed the taller rocks behind and taken aim, ready to shoot Harper in the back.

It all happened so fast. Charlie supposed that must be how a person reacted in these situations, purely on instinct. Charles had found his own gut reaction had kicked in before his mind had time to plan, negotiate, discuss, and activate a tactical response. In one swift movement he'd barged Harper out of the way and fired his gun, hitting that no-good fair in the chest. The man fell to ground with a dull thud and a puff of dust.

Harper on the other hand hadn't moved since Charlie's extraordinarily hearty tackle had laid him to ground where he was scrunched in a ball, eyes squeezed shut and face twisted in a rigor of pain as he clutched at his bloody shoulder.

 _Oh blast._ Could it be that he, Charles A. Morgan had overreacted a tad in the hefty body slam he had afforded Harper to get him out of the way?

"Harper?"

"There's... still... two more."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Two more of them... fellas. Ya... ya gotta watch out for 'em."

 _Bollocks._ Charlie left Harper to his own devices and took careful note of the rocks where he'd seen those gun-toting outlaws hide. There was no sign of life. He heard a quiet stirring behind him and figured Harper was making a move. Charlie kept his eyes peeled out front; he most certainly did not want any further sneaky little forays by those dirty rotten scoundrels into their hideout.

Charlie wasn't a fan of surprises. Although strictly speaking that wasn't entirely true. He quite liked it that time when William had surprised him with a whole year's subscription to his precious dime novels the Christmas of '61. And those occasions when he actually found a chunk of steak in the steak and kidney pudding. He was definitely pleasantly surprised when, for his thirtieth birthday, his boss had set up high tea for him and his colleagues with scones and jam and clotted cream and watercress sandwiches, and little bowls of peanuts and crisps and a whole block of that new fandangled Fry's chocolate. That was a frightfully spiffing occasion indeed.

But there were those other times when surprises had snuck up on him without a single pleasantry to be seen. Like when his dad had caught him with his hand in the swearing jar and walloped the pants off him so he couldn't sit for a week. When he'd discovered it wasn't Santa who ate the biscuits and milk he'd set out on Christmas Eve but his mum! And the milking cow down the road got the carrot and not Rudolf.

He wasn't particularly impressed with matches that took twenty-five tries or more before they'd ignite or beans that didn't know when to quit digesting, or marshals who were outlaws... and he most certainly was not enthralled with gunfights in rocky cliffs and a bleeding-out cowboy with a puss-infested bullet hole, filled with fever and lying at death's door when he should have been leading the battle. Although Charles freely admitted he did need to take some ownership for Harper's condition.

Right at that precise moment, Charlie was over Western adventures. He wanted his sofa with the comfy floral cushions his mother had sewn for him, and his multi-coloured crocheted rug which draped across one's knees and kept the damp chill air of the early evening at bay. He wanted his nice soft bed, with oil lamps that glowed warm and inviting and his little cook-stove where he could fry liver and bacon and eggs and where he'd never have to expel another bean-flavoured burp in his life. Charlie wanted to go home.

"Morgan... Morgan..."

Charlie turned and came face to face with Harper who had miraculously made it to his feet unaided.

"You see where they went?"

"To hell for all I care."

Charlie had set the table and was enthusiastically welcoming guests to his pity party. Self-recrimination, guilt and regret were earnestly involved in a deep and meaningful conversation in the corner of his living room, inviting Charles to join them. But he had to take a rain check as he was already up to his eyeballs in discussion with self-doubts and second-thoughts. Lack-of-confidence had made a timely arrival, too, armed with a plateful of all sorts of soul-crushing delights.

Jess sensed Morgan had lost some of his shiny-bright zest for life in the West. With his uncanny ability to read a person's emotional state, Jess decided Morgan needed a good old fashioned pep talk and he was just the man to do it.

"Nice shootin'."

"What?"

Jess staggered over to stand next to Charlie.

"Quick thinkin' too. Reckon ya saved my life."

Charlie stood mouth agape, staring wide-eyed at Harper. "You've got to be joking. This is all my fault."

"I reckon so. But it's because of you Slim ain't gonna be puttin' me to bed with a pick and shovel tonight. Coulda easy turned out like that if ya hadn't had yer wits about ya."

"I know what you're trying to do, Harper. You think you can make me feel better by saying nice things."

"Let's get one thing straight. I ain't nobody's nurse maid. And I ain't gonna tell you ya done good if it ain't the truth. So shut up and see if ya can spot them last two sidewinders."

Charlie didn't feel quite the same chest-swelling pride he'd had the last time Harper had complimented him. He was still reeling from his own inadequacies ganging up on him and making him face the truth.

A sudden volley of rapid gunfire shocked both men into action. Jess and Charlie opened fire simultaneously on the last two men who were now making a run for the Laramie road, alternately taking shots over their shoulders as they rode.

"They're leaving." Charlie announced, releasing a long breath and allowing his knees to sag with relief.

"Maybe."

A sudden fury surged in Charlie's chest. "What do you mean 'maybe'? You can clearly see they're going."

"Yeah. Them sort don't usually quit so easy. But right now, you and me are gonna mount up and head back to Laramie. While we got time and still got some bullets left."

Morgan leaned against the rock and watched as Harper turned to leave. He made it three paces before one leg folded beneath him and he went down on bended knee reaching out blindly for support with his left hand.

Charlie abandoned the antisocial activities taking place in his mind and told the pity party to kick on without him. Maybe the Wild West wasn't all it was cracked up to be, but he, Charles Anthony Morgan had a mission to complete before he gave up on his dream and that was to return Harper to his home, to those who cared about him and were probably worried sick not knowing where he was. And Charlie intended to get Harper there in one piece... more or less. Well... at the very least, still drawing breath.

sssSSSsss

Charlie had never given it much thought before; just exactly how one manoeuvred a near-dead weight from the ground into a saddle. The details of the physical demands and sheer determination required had been conveniently skimmed over in his Western novels. Charlie was beginning to suspect the writers had done little research into the mechanics required to seat a semi-conscious, delirious, feverish, uncooperative man comfortably atop his horse. Although 'comfortably', Charlie conceded, was a matter of interpretation.

Charlie stood back and examined his handiwork.

Harper resembled a pretzel.

His head was slumped forward, lolling against his horse's neck, face buried in the mane and his legs hanging at most peculiar angle – _that's gotta be_ _uncomfortable_ , Charlie thought irrelevantly.

Wrapping gifts had never been Charlie's forte, more often than not the paper would spring loose, the ineffectual ribbon designed to hold it in place ending up as a tangle of knots and frayed edges. It seemed tying a man to his saddle came loosely under the same heading as gift-wrapping.

Charlie had to admit... to see Harper bound in yards of loosely coiled rope decorated with an abundance of useless knots was leaning heavily on the side of embarrassing. And yet, despite the plentiful amount of twine, Harper looked as if he might slide from the saddle if he dared to take a deep breath.

Drawing on his newly-learnt and highly impressive vocabulary, Charlie let a few choice favourites slide easily out from between his lips hoping profanities might be enough to hold Harper in place.

sssSSSsss

The ride was slow going. Charlie had opted to take the long way around, the one he'd started out on earlier, and with Harper's precarious position in the saddle the horses were kept to an easy walk.

It was an hour before the Laramie road finally came into view. The sun was high in the afternoon sky, the gentle warmth now a scorching heat beating down on both men. _This can't be good for Harper's fever. And I'm rather concerned about the way his breath keeps catching when he inhales._ Charlie had taken to making conversation with himself in his head. It helped pass the time, it helped stave off an impending panic attack and it helped him mull over his options... of which there were few. They needed to stop. That wound of Harper's needed tending. At least in his current state, Charlie was relieved to note, there wouldn't be any argument.

In the distance, just a way off to the left of the road, Charlie could make out a line of lush green trees, willows reaching long wispy branches downward and if he strained to listen, he was sure he could hear the sound of running water.

Although Charlie had a good many things going for him, luck wasn't usually something he chalked up to his side. His track record over the last twenty-four hours surely had drained him of what feeble supply he might have held in store for future disasters. And yes, he _was_ willing to admit that most of his luck had been bad. But the fact that Harper had made it though surgery - albeit a rather loose term for the brutal procedure performed the previous night - and they had both survived two bouts of bushwhacking, found Charlie thanking his one lucky star for having his back on both of those occasions. He was doubly grateful for the fortuitous location of the stream and the abundance of willow bark he now had readily at hand.

It was twenty minutes later when Charlie managed to haul Harper from his mount and drag him to a makeshift bed under the shade of a tall cottonwood. There was a certain amount of alarm sounding in Charlie's head when he noticed the underwear bandage was no longer containing the blood flow to Harpers shoulder. His once blue denim sleeve was now a soggy purple stain, stuck to his arm with his own blood.

Charlie's heart quickly plummeted to his toes and he sank to his haunches, trying to figure out a plan.

First thing he had to do was stop the bleeding. Get the fever down. Give Harper something to drink. Start a fire. Matches! Where were the bleeding matches? Wood. He needed wood. And utensils. A pan. Water. The willow bark. What would he use to pulverize it? A rock. Two rocks. No! Wait. He had to shred it not crush it... _Oh, hell!_

Charlie's panic attack was just winding up to something spectacular when suddenly Harper let out a soft groan.

The rising fear, the confusion, the indecision all skidded to an abrupt halt and in its place crept silently, on stockinged feet, a sneaky little voice of reason. Thoughts, ideas and a logical order of things started to form themselves into a neat row, standing to attention and waiting for instruction.

Harper was out cold, unwell, uncomfortable and appearing for all intents and purposes to be hammering on death's front door. But he was breathing and the wetness on the stained shirt, underwear bandage and crudely-made sling didn't seem to be spreading.

Charles consulted his growing mental checklist and made note of what should be done and the order in which it should happen.

Wood first.

Then fire.

Willow bark.

Water.

Clean the wound, fresh bandage. They had no fresh bandages. They had no clean underwear...

"Hold it right there, mister," a disembodied voice commanded from behind. And just in case Charlie had any inclination to move, the unmistakable metallic click of a hammer being cocked convinced him to do as he was told.

"On your feet and back slowly away. Keep your hands where I can see 'em."

Slim watched as the man stood, arms held out from his side in a passive gesture. He couldn't be sure, but there seemed to be a tremble in his body as he cautiously stepped away from Jess.

"Okay, turn around. Real careful. Don't go gettin' sudden on me. I won't hesitate to put a bullet in you."

Charlie turned.

"Now take your gun out with your left hand and toss it over here."

Charlie obeyed.

"You the one who took my partner at gunpoint from the Laramie saloon?"

"I... I can explain." Charlie knew who this was. Slim Sherman, Harper's friend from the relay station. "It... it was a mistake."

"You're darn right it was."

"Mister... Sherman, isn't it?"

Slim stiffened, eyes narrowing, "How'd you know my name?"

"We've met. Ever so briefly... at the relay station. I was on the stage from Cheyenne approximately three days ago. Look... we're wasting time, Harper's extremely unwell, he's lost a lot of blood and he seems to have a frightful fever."

"What happened to him?"

"Shot. In the shoulder."

"You. Sit. Put your hands on your head and leave 'em there where I can see 'em."

Slim bent and picked up Charlie's gun, shoving it in the waistband of his jeans. Keeping a wary eye on the stranger he made his way over to Jess.

In a way Charlie was relieved. No, that wasn't true. Charlie was absolutely, undoubtedly paying homage to his sudden onset of good fortune. Hallelujah and praise his one lucky star because now he could finally hand over the responsibility of saving Harper's life to someone else. And in a way Charlie had lived up to his promise. He'd delivered Harper into the bosom of his loved ones... kind of... more or less. Okay, he had to admit it hadn't gone exactly how he'd imagined, but blast it all how could it? Nothing about his trip into Wyoming had.

Figuring Sherman was not in a talkative mood, he sat back with hands on his head and observed the proceedings before him.

If Slim hadn't been so preoccupied with the state of his pard, he might have felt two grey bloodshot eyes boring a hole clean through his back, but all of his focus was on Jess. The blood stained shirt, the... what in blueblazes was _that_ wrapped around his shoulder? It... It looked like... _underwear._ Slim frowned, and rubbed a hand over his bristly chin giving careful consideration to this unexpected garment doubling as a bandage. And then he turned a bemused glare on Charlie.

"Yours?" Slim knew they weren't Jess's. They were too white... except for all the red now soaked into them. Jess's longjohns tended to be slightly on the pink side; he never had figured out that you don't wash colours with whites and continually persisted in throwing everything into the washing tub together, including himself when the fancy took him.

Jess looked terrible. Even for Jess. Slim noted the deathly shade of pale under his usually tanned skin, dark stubble adorned his chin and jawline and his hair was plastered damp against his sweat-coated brow.

The stranger was right, Jess needed attention and needed it fast.

"This is all my fault."

Slim turned slowly towards the man seated with his knees drawn to his chest, noting the hangdog expression on his face. The man was almost as pale as Jess. He didn't look dangerous. Looks could be deceiving, Slim knew that - but the stranger looked defeated, forlorn...

"I'm responsible."

"I didn't figure Jess put a bullet in his own shoulder." Slim said, still trying to get a handle on this man who had taken his pard against his will.

Charlie looked up at Slim. "I didn't shoot him."

"No?" Slim turned back to Jess and started to unwind the longjohns from around Jess's torso, freeing his right arm from the unusual sling. Jess stirred, a small grimace creasing his brow as his breath hitched in his throat.

"Easy there, pard." Slim crooned, but there was no further response. _Probably a good thing he doesn't know what's going on. Least until it's time to get him back on his horse._

"I took the bullet out. Last night. He couldn't feel his hand. I was worried there might be nerve damage."

Slim paused, his fingers hovering over the last of the fastened buttons on jess's shirt.

"You?"

"Yes. Me."

"Are you a doctor?"

"No. My name is Charlie Morgan. I'm a bookstore clerk. From Surrey. That's in England."

"Yeah. I know where it is." Slim finished unfastening Jess's shirt and gently peeled back the sodden denim from his shoulder. "You're not a bounty hunter?"

"No."

"Come here, Morgan." Slim untied his bandanna from around his neck and handed it to Charlie. "Hold this over the wound. Put pressure on it. I've got fresh bandages in my saddlebag."

Charlie nodded and knelt beside Jess. The bandage, the old bandage still tied around Harper's shoulder was warm with bright red blood still oozing through the layers of underwear fabric.

Slim grabbed several rolls of bandages, a bottle of whiskey and two clean bandannas. He tied one around his neck and shoved the other in his pocket. He liked to keep a few spares in his saddlebag having learnt fairly early on in their friendship that if there was a bullet to be stopped, Jess was the man for the job.

Returning to his pard, Slim invited Charlie to step away from Jess by glaring at him. Charlie complied, but he was working himself up to one hell of an internal tizzy. After everything he and Harper had been through together, including _'the moment_ ' right after Charlie had taken down that fellow and his horse. The moment which had cemented a lifelong friendship, camaraderie, kinship, soldiers in battle... and now Sherman was just going to cast him aside. Well, sod it! Charlie was not about to let that happen.

"Now look here, Mr. Sherman... Harper and I have an understanding..." In his head the words made perfect sense, let loose, gallivanting into the wide blue open, they didn't hold quite the same impact. In fact, even to his own ears he was sounding like a bit of a Wally.

Slim ignored the man and returned to his post by Jess's side. He slowly lifted the last of the wadded up underwear from Jess's shoulder, biting down on his bottom lip and frowning hard when a fresh flow of blood oozed from the ugly wound. Slim chewed harder on his lip as he mopped at the blood, revealing an angry red incision, half of it crusted over with newly-formed scab tinged with the unmistakable yellow seepage of infection leaking from the edge.

"Looks like this has been cauterized. Half of it anyway. Did you do this?" Slim asked, once again turning an accusing gaze towards Charlie.

"Yes. And no. I tried... I couldn't go through with it. The man was in agony... I couldn't inflict any more pain on him. I... I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do to help...?"

Slim raised an eyebrow and then aimed his concentration back at Jess. Slim knew the torture of having to lie still while someone dug around in your body for a bullet. He also knew the hell of having a wound cauterized. He couldn't blame Morgan for opting out. From the looks of him, he hadn't seen a lot of time out in the West.

Slim grabbed the whiskey bottle and popped the cork. _Pard, I gotta clean this wound and it's gonna hurt. I'm sorry._

"Morgan? You say you wanna help? Then get yourself over here and hold him down while I try and clean this out some."

Charlie thought he'd seen the back of barbaric western behaviour last night. Surely this Sherman character could wait until they got back to Laramie and Harper in the hands of a properly trained medical professional? Oh, Charlie was no slouch when it came to cleanliness, after all was it not he who saw to the sterilisation of his surgical instruments... uh... instrument the night before?

"Morgan! Get over here!"

Charlie reluctantly made his way over to Sherman.

"Hold his arms. When I pour this onto the wound he's liable to start bucking. Might seem like he's out cold now, but this'll sure get his attention."

Charlie didn't like Sherman and wondered at Harper's choice of friends. However, when he laid eyes on the red, festering, hole in Jess' shoulder, Charlie thought he might just barf right where he stood. Grudgingly he admitted that, yes, it could do with a jolly good clean-out.

Kneeling on the ground behind Harper's head, Charlie braced his hands on both of Jess's arms in anticipation of whiskey-cleaning rebellion. He didn't have to wait long, the second the eighty-proof liquor hit the wound Harper let loose with a god-awful yowl and kicked his feet in an effort to move away from the pain.

Charlie's stomach twisted around itself and a cold sweat trickled down his spine. He closed his eyes against Harper's struggling and firmed up his grip when Sherman yelled at him to hold tighter. Eventually Harper's thrashing stilled but Charlie was locked in place, trembling in sympathy for the man he had strangely enough, come to consider a friend.

It was all over in a matter of seconds, but Charlie felt he had just lived through two lifetimes.

"Morgan. You can let go. He's passed out again."

Charlie released his grip and fought valiantly to keep his stomach anchored to his insides. There was something about seeing a human being in raw pain that sent him into a state of extreme squeamishness. What he wouldn't give for a good slug of Bristol Cream sherry right now.

"Here." Slim thrust the medicinal whiskey towards Morgan. The last time Slim had seen a man that green around the gills he'd been dead. "Drink some of this. Might help."

Charlie gave the hard liquor a good long look then mentally shrugged and accepted the bottle. Charles wasn't used to the hard stuff. He'd tried it once... well, twice actually. The second time didn't really count because he had no memory whatsoever of the event, other than a fist-sized hole in the lounge room wall of his cozy little cottage in Surrey. Charlie wished the first time had also failed to imprint itself on his memory as that occasion had ended up with some frightfully embarrassing moments, not the least being him puking on the front seat of Caroline Fozby-Jones' brand new carriage.

Still, desperate times called for desperate measures and Charlie couldn't remember a time in his life when he'd felt more desperate than at that precise moment. Imitating Sherman, he popped the cork with his teeth and poured a healthy five fingers of America's finest down his gullet.

Liquid fire burned a searing trail along his throat, where a whiskey inferno bubbled like molten lava in his guts. Surely it must be eating a hole clean through his stomach lining and out the other side. Charlie coughed a high-pitched, strangled wheeze as a blaze of red engulfed his neck and cheeks and sizzled a winding path through his hairline. In a fleeting moment of panic, he wondered if he'd ever be able to draw breath again.

A sudden sharp slap on the back brought him to his senses and Charlie gulped a lungful of clean prairie air which triggered a new round of rasping coughs and Charlie saw his life flash before him.

Slim on the other hand had never seen anyone put on quite a show as this simply from throwing back a quick snort of redeye. _Who was this man?_ He sure as heck didn't fit the criteria for the usual unsavoury character Jess managed to dredge up from his past. And what would this tenderfoot - from England no less - want with Jess? Slim had an awful lot of questions running around in his head at that moment. Questions he'd tamped down in order to tend to Jess but one thing was certain, as soon as he had his pard sorted out, Charlie Morgan was going to be on the receiving end of Slim's third degree.

When Morgan turned purple, Slim thought maybe he oughta offer the man some water, so he swapped the whiskey bottle for a canteen and Charlie drank greedily in between staggered gasps for air.

When he could at last speak, he croaked out a hoarse thank you and wiped tears from his eyes.

"That... sure... hit the spot." Charlie rasped in a sand-papery whisper.

"Yeah. So I see." Slim took comfort in the fact the stranger now had a healthy crimson glow to his cheeks, so he re-corked the bottle and turned his attention back to Jess. With some disappointment, he dabbed gently at the new flow of whiskey-diluted blood oozing from Jess's wound.

"Morgan, help me lift him so I can bandage this shoulder."

Slim had had many an occasion to doctor Jess's bullet holes... along with busted ribs, sprains, strains and random mountaineering accidents. Practice makes perfect and Slim had the whole procedure of bandaging down to a fine art. Charlie watched in awe. Was there nothing an American cowboy of the west could not turn a hand to? What a remarkably competent lot they were proving themselves to be.

It was over in less than ten minutes, including Slim dressing Jess in a clean shirt. Along with extra bandannas, Slim knew it was also wise to throw an extra set of clothes in his saddlebag when on the hunt for Jess.

Slim was fairly confident he'd stemmed the blood flow but, he had to admit, the heat radiating from Jess's body had him worried. The fever seemed to have taken a firm hold and while he knew they needed to get Jess to a doc, gut instinct told him an hour or so of rest might be the better option before attempting to get back on the trail.

Whipping the extra bandanna out of his pocket, Slim doused it with water and started mopping at Jess's brow. _It sure won't hurt to at least try and get this fever down some._

"Um, Mr. Sherman... I can make him some tea. Willowbark tea, to help with the fever and pain." Charlie wondered idly why he felt compelled to refer to Slim Sherman as Mister when he'd been perfectly happy to call Harper, Harper. Charles didn't like the intimidation Slim Sherman had unwittingly imposed on him, but Charlie wasn't inclined to take it up with the tall blond man with the less than cordial attitude, and stood several feet back waiting for his answer.

Watching the way Slim Sherman was taking care of his friend, Charlie felt a pang of envy which pierced deep and sharp into his very being. Thinking back, he couldn't recall anyone in his life who would have gone to such lengths to ensure _his_ well being and while he had sensed a kind of bond forming between him and Harper, right now he felt very much the outsider.

"Did you say something, Morgan?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I did. Clearly Harper is in the grip of a very debilitating fever and I believe some willow bark tea might be helpful in bringing it down and easing some of his pain. Now... if you would be so kind as to light a fire, then I will get to it."

Slim reached into his pocket and threw Morgan a box of matches.

"Here. Knock yourself out."

 _Sod it!_ Charlie was under no false illusion about his match-striking ability and was in fact feeling terribly inadequate in the presence of Sherman's hostility. Still, if he was going to be a Western frontiersman, then he needed to cowboy-up and block the incessant waves of negativity emanating from this Sherman character. If he, Charles Morgan could extract a bullet from a man's shoulder then surely he could light a blasted match!

As it turned out, Charlie had success on the first attempt and a hearty campfire blazing within fifteen minutes. If only Harper had been awake to see it. Another ten minutes saw a pot of shredded bark and water brewing over the open fire while Sherman cooled and watered all three horses and moved them to where they could help themselves to the lush green grass growing alongside the stream.

Normally, Charlie would have liked to let the bark dry out for a few days, but beggars, as he so often declared, could not be choosers so he had had to make do with the freshly prepared shavings from several young twigs.

"S... Slim?"

Jess was having a terrible dream, even by his standards. He dreamt a man had taken him by gunpoint from the Laramie saloon. They'd ridden towards Cheyenne, only it wasn't towards Cheyenne. There was white goo served to him on a plate as if he was supposed to eat it. There were gunshots and pain and a knife. He vaguely remembered something about longjohns worn in inappropriate places... they'd been riding – more or less – and there were lost rowels and ropes and dadgum... something was tickling his brain that involved butts.

And his shoulder hurt. Really hurt. _Musta slept on it wrong._ Except the more he tried to move the worse it got. And his bed was hard and the room hot. He was real thirsty, too. Had he tied one on the night before?

"Harper?"

 _That voice._

"Harper. Can you hear me?"

 _No._

 _It was a dream._

 _A nightmare._

 _It wasn't real_.

"Mr. Sherman. I think Harper's coming around."

 _Slim? Slim is here?_

Jess had a brief moment of praise and exaltation thanking everyone and everything he could think of. Slim would save him.

"Enough with the Mr. Sherman, Morgan. You can call me Slim. You got that tea ready yet?"

 _Tea?_

 _No, not Slim, too! This ain't happenin'. I gotta still be dreamin'._

"It's just cooling down. Maybe another minute or two."

 _Morgan. Charlie Morgan._ _ **His**_ _voice._

"Jess?"

"S... Slim?"

"I'm here, pard. You just take it easy. You sure had me worried."

"M... Morgan?"

"Yeah, he's here."

"It... I... I wadn't dreamin'?"

"Harper, I'm here. All is well." Charlie loomed over Jess in a manner which heavily invaded all of Jess's personal space. He couldn't help but flinch, which sent shards of red-hot pain shooting down his arm and a lungful of blasphemy shooting from his mouth.

"Here, I made some tea." Charlie shoved a tin cup towards Jess.

Slim was puzzled. He'd never seen quite such a look of terror on his pard's face before. Sure, Jess must be hurtin' but what in blue blazes could have him so terrified?

Jess looked from the cup to Slim to Charlie to the cup and back to Slim. "I ain't thirsty."

"Jess, drink it. We gotta get you to a doc and you're in no shape to ride the way things are."

Slim took it upon himself to ease Jess into a sitting position, ignoring the protests and cussing and threats of grievous bodily harm. It didn't hold quite the same menace when expressed in a barely audible whisper and the protests soon petered out to a teeth-clenching grimace peppered with short shallow gasps.

Charlie handed Slim the cup.

He watched Sherman coax his friend into drinking the tea. Charlie knew the chalky bitter taste would be hard to swallow but Slim Sherman certainly had a knack for making Harper co-operate.

The ordeal seemed to have knocked the fighting spirit out of Harper and when Sherman lowered him to the ground again, he lay very still with eyes closed... his ragged breathing the only sign of life.

"Try and get some sleep, Jess. The ride back to Laramie won't be easy goin'."

Jess offered a short sharp nod and nothing more.

sssSSSsss

Leaving Jess to rest, Slim set about brewing some coffee for him and Charlie. Slim's curiosity had just about reached breaking point and he had every intention of finding out just what the dadblamed heck had been going on with this Morgan character and Jess over the past twenty-four hours. And Morgan better have the right answers or he was going to find himself riding back to Laramie with the pointy end of a rifle as a persuader.

With Harper settled and a pot of coffee boiling merrily on the campfire, Charlie wondered what Slim might have in store for him. Some of the surliness had returned after forcing Harper to drink. With the stress of being the sole caregiver for Harper gone, Charlie's emotions were see-sawing between adrenaline-driven excitement at being in the thick of a real life cowboy adventure and dread as to what kind of trouble he would be facing when he got back to Laramie.

Charlie knew the consequences for kidnapping. He gently massaged his throat wondering what it would feel like with the rough hemp of a hangman's noose looped around his neck.

"Coffee?"

Slim cut into Charlie's thoughts, a cup of steaming black liquid thrust out towards him.

"Thank you."

"There's a price."

"Of course. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Or so I've heard." Harper's words spun in his head and slipped past his lips.

"You're going to tell me why you took Jess from the saloon and why he's laying there with a bullet hole in his shoulder and a fever fit to fry eggs. And I want the whole story."

So Charlie opened up. Hesitantly at first but as he warmed to his tale of woe the words came thick and fast, bursting forth and washing over Slim like a torrential downpour.

Slim had always tried to work hard at his social skills. He was quite the conversationalist when the time called for it and the company was right. Mostly, he got on well with people, was willing to listen to another's point of view. He considered himself to be fair-minded and always tried to see the good in a fellow human being. But Slim didn't suffer fools lightly. The right kind of fool in his presence could shorten his fuse to detonation point in no time at all.

Charlie seemed like a nice sort of fella. Apart from the fact he'd kidnapped Jess and caused him to catch a bullet in the shoulder. And then there was the fever... when it was all said and done, that was Morgan's fault, too, in an indirect kind of way. But Jess was strong and possessed remarkable healing powers so while Slim was concerned, past experience dictated Jess should pull through.

Slim had found Charlie's story interesting at first. But now the man was simply droning on without even pausing for breath. Slim realised his mind was wandering to thoughts of using Morgan as target practice, or wondering how he might cope tied to the back of a horse and dragged through the stream. Slim imagined pouring the rest of the whiskey down Charlie's throat in an effort to still the flood of words cascading from his mouth. Only this time there'd be no pats on the backs or offers of a canteen. If Charlie Morgan didn't SHUTUP, he could turn fifteen shades of purple for all Slim cared.

"Morgan!"

"So, I'd only been in New York a few hours when I met up with a chappy who suggested I board a train and head out west. That's where I first heard about Harper and his reputation..."

Slim was impressed. Jess's reputation had reached New York. He couldn't decide if this was something of which he should be proud or whether maybe he oughta just pretend he hadn't heard about it.

Morgan's voice prattled away in his ear, droning on and on and on... Slim's thoughts turned to what Daisy might be cooking for supper. Last night she'd cooked Jess's favourite; chicken and dumplings but Jess hadn't come home. When he didn't walk through the door at the expected time Slim knew something had to be seriously wrong.

Mitch Halloran had heard from Frank at the general store who had heard it from Fred at the telegraph office who had heard it from Cal from the livery stable who'd heard it from George Carson who had seen it with his own eyes! Jess Harper had been taken at gunpoint from the saloon. Mitch rode out to the ranch to inform Slim but by the time he arrived it was too late to go after Jess. Mitch had stayed for supper and eaten Jess's portion of the chicken and dumplings. Slim thought he oughta keep that information under his hat. Jess had been through enough.

"And that's when I came across this Treb McGann fellow. He was wearing a marshal's badge, why wouldn't I believe him..."

Slim thought Charlie had come up for air... but no, he was off again. And Slim zoned out failing to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn before allowing his mind to stroll aimlessly toward oblivion again.

Once he had Jess safely stowed at the doc's and this Charlie character delivered to Mort, he should probably call by the general store for supplies. There was that fence he and Jess were planning in the north pasture. They'd need fencing wire and some more posts. While he was there he might as well pick up some baling wire and nails, Jess had said they were running low.

Slim wondered what Daisy might be fixing for supper tonight. Jess probably wouldn't be up to eating... wait... Of course Jess would want to eat... unless Doc Burns wanted to keep him in town for awhile. Although Daisy was capable of taking care of him... but how would he get Jess home? He couldn't ride. No, probably best Jess stay in town and Slim collect him with the buckboard the next day...

"So I found Harper in the Saloon. We headed off towards Cheyenne..."

 _What? Cheyenne?_ One or two of Charlie's words started to trickle through.

"Cheyenne? Morgan, you got your directions all turned around. Cheyenne's east of Laramie not west."

 _Bollocks! No wonder Harper's directions seemed arse about face when he directed me back to Laramie. I assumed he was just a tad under the weather because of the fever._

"Hmph. Well anyway, we stopped for the night and..."

Slim shifted from the rock he was sitting on and eased himself to the ground. A quick glance at Jess showed his pard was out cold. The fever-sweat still glistened on his forehead but his breathing seemed even and regular. Sighing quietly, Slim inched his butt forward and leaned against the rock, gazing upward. The sky sure was a pretty shade of blue this time of year, not a cloud to be seen... Slim thought fall was his favourite season of them all. The air seemed somehow cleaner, and crisper, the sun brighter and its warmth a welcome comfort after the cooler mornings and chilly evenings. Slim didn't often have time to kick back and really appreciate the simple things in life.

"And see I tried to light this fire but there was something wrong with the matches so I had to untie Harper..."

Yes, the leaves seemed extra especially colourful this year. The rich gold browns of the oak, the red of the maples and the bright yellows of the aspens vivid against the back drop of whispering grassy plains and sandy rock-faced cliffs... Wyoming sure was pretty.

"Then Harper had to go and be a hero when I had everything perfectly under control..."

Of course, Slim liked spring too. The calves and foals. There was something special about witnessing the beginning of a new life. Round up was hard work, but it paid off and then there was the spring dance. Last year he'd had the pleasure of dancing with Emmie-Lou Burns. Slim's heart still skipped a beat when he thought of her. They wrote occasionally, and they caught up now and then when she visited her uncle in town. She sure was a pretty gal. Smart too.

"When Harper started complaining he couldn't feel his hand, I knew there was only one course of action available to me. I had to take the bullet out. Well, Harper practically begged me. I could hardly say no..."

Andy would be a month into the new school year now. _I sure miss that boy._ Slim thought about the kind of man his younger brother was growing into. A fella couldn't help but be proud. Andy worked hard and from all accounts was a quick study, too, and well thought of in school. It warmed Slim's heart to know at least one of them would make something of themselves. Although... he couldn't complain really. Slim loved ranching. Yeah, it was hard but Jess had sure taken some of the strain off since he came along.

"Harper depended on me to find us some decent cover when those scoundrels showed up for a second go. I would have preferred the cover of a butt, except Harper was in no condition to..."

 _Butt? Did Morgan just say butt?_

Slim dug a finger into his ear searching for waxy build up but nope, all clear. He decided not to interrupt in case Charlie took it as encouragement to add even more chapters to his glorified adventure.

Slim's thoughts turned back to Jess... Slim hadn't had a lot of time to develop close friendships during his youth. All that responsibility... it rested heavy on his shoulders. Pa dying, Ma never really recovering from the loss, the war and all it encompassed... then being left to raise Andy. He couldn't have done what he did without Jonesy. And Slim appreciated the old man, but he was his Pa's friend. Not that Slim had given it a lot of thought until Jess came along, but he realised then, how much he needed the friendship of a man closer to his age. And Jess, whilst having a shaky start to ranch life, had proven himself time and time again as both a top hand and loyal friend.

"So we took on the remaining scoundrels and drove them away. Of course this took its toll on Harper and his wound opened up again and by this time the fever had set in. It was all I could do to get him on his horse..."

Charlie's last words sunk in. The thought of Jess being shot at, forced to defend himself and that witless Morgan while leaking blood and riddled with fever... Slim felt a new surge of hostility race through his veins.

"... and that's when we ran into you."

A quick jab of panic shot through Slim's chest. What if Jess didn't pull through? Had he been a little too complacent in his assessment of Jess's recuperative powers? Jess looked awfully pale, and all that blood he'd been losing... And why was he still out cold? _I better go take a closer look at him._

"Um... Mr. Sherman... Slim? Did you hear what I said. Two of those outlaws got away. That's why I stuck to the back trail."

"Huh?" Slim was preoccupied with double-checking Jess's bandage, relieved there was no fresh blood seeping through. What did concern him was the dry parched feel of his skin when Slim laid palm to forehead. Jess was still burning up; his body no longer producing enough sweat to cope with his soaring temperature... if the tea had made any difference, Slim wasn't seeing it.

"I said, two of those outlaws got away, that's why I stayed on the back trail until I found the road. You don't think they'll come after us again, do you?"

"Morgan... Break camp. We need to get Jess to the doc. I don't like the way he's still out and he's too darned warm for my liking. I'll get the horses."

Charlie wondered if Slim had heard a single word he'd said, but he had to agree; Harper looked ghastly.

sssSSSsss

Charlie had been remarkably efficient packing up the campsite, but Slim was too busy with the horses and worrying about Jess to notice.

Charlie wondered how they were going to get Harper mounted on his horse this time. At least before he'd been semi-conscious and slightly aware of what was required, albeit not in the most cooperative of moods.

As it happened he didn't have to wait long to find out. Slim ground-tied the horses and beckoned Charlie to follow him.

While Charlie wasn't in the same league as Edison or Newton, he was quick with figures and generally had a fairly solid understanding of most applied mechanics. Somehow, though, things seemed to get lost in the translation whenever he attempted to put theory into practice. Slim Sherman, however, not only possessed an extraordinary knack for getting Harper to do as he was told, but had no trouble whatsoever making the transition from planning to outcome.

Coaxing Harper into consciousness with a few gentle slaps to the cheek and half a canteen of water splashed onto his face soon revived Jess to semi-comatose and alert enough for both Charlie and Slim to help him to his feet.

Slim was cursing his carelessness. He'd meant to grab a clean sling off the washline before heading out this morning, but in his rush to get riding had completely forgotten. Quite the expert at improvisation, though, he soon had enough buttons of Jess's shirt undone so as Jess could slip his hand inside to support his right arm.

Jess growled and cussed and dry-heaved a time or two but he was upright, although on rubbery legs and needing both Slim and Charlie to support him.

Over time, Jess had managed the art of mounting a horse by rote. Once while out on the trail, Slim had seen him do it in his sleep and stay that way for a good hour or more before he realised he was even riding. So Slim was fairly confident of getting Jess aboard Traveller even in his current state of decline.

Once Jess was mounted, much to Charlie's despair, Slim insisted he jump up behind Jess to hold him in place. Charlie eyed sweet little Edwina and then looked long and hard at Jess's big bay. _Blimey he's a long way off the ground!_

"Well. What are you waiting for?" Slim was losing patience again. Morgan was standing there looking at Jess's horse like he'd had just asked him to wrestle a bear.

"Mount up!" Slim insisted. Charlie gulped, lifted foot to stirrup, placed one hand on the horn and the other on the cantle and heaved. It took several bounces on the ball of his foot to finally get some leverage and a sharp tug on his right hamstring to throw his leg over the bedroll and land behind Jess with half his rear end hanging off the back of the saddle.

His arse was not impressed.

Traveller shuffled forward and shook his head. Something wasn't right and he didn't like the feel of it.

Jess stirred briefly and listed dangerously to his left.

"Morgan! Get a hold of him. Where's your horse sense?"

"He... ain't... got none." Jess croaked.

"Don't listen to him, he's delirious. I am in fact an excellent horseman," Charlie lied. But he had no intention of letting Slim know the truth... if he could help it.

Slim was surprised Jess was awake let alone willing to contribute an opinion. "You okay, pard?"

No answer.

"Jess?" Slim wheeled his horse around to get a better look. Nope, he was out again.

"You keep him in that saddle, Morgan. I'm holding you personally responsible. So make sure he stays there!"

Charlie _really_ didn't like this Sherman fellow. For some reason he seemed even crankier than Harper. A few short hours ago, Charlie wouldn't have believed that was possible.

The ride back to Laramie was relatively uneventful apart from the scowls of impatience occasionally being thrown by Slim. Charlie was looking forward to some quiet time. His biggest stress was keeping Harper still, the fever seemed to have spiked again and he was restlessly shifting around and murmuring all kinds of nonsense in his delirium.

Snugged up so close to Harper and his overactive body temperature, Charlie was sweating buckets. And he was constantly on edge waiting for Sherman to vent his wrath again. They made several stops to try to get Jess to drink, but it seemed a futile effort and most of the water just dribbled down his chin.

From the look Sherman was aiming at Charlie, one would think Charlie was personally responsible for everything that had ever gone wrong since the dawn of time including Harper's inability to hydrate himself. As soon as Harper was safely back in Laramie, Charlie had every intention of giving Sherman a piece of his mind. Not everything about this disastrous affair was completely his fault.

Any day other than Sunday and they might have run into the West bound stage or better yet, the East bound from Rawlins... any other day apart from today - just when they could have done with the help. Slim was cursing Charlie Morgan, Treb McCann, even Jess for not taking more care, and the fact that Mort had been out of town when Slim rode through in the early morning. Not that Mort could have done much more than what Slim was already doing, but having an extra gun with them and a lawman to take Morgan off his hands when they reached Laramie seemed mighty attractive to Slim at that moment.

And there were still those two bushwhackers who got away. Slim knew of the McCann gang... Treb, he had a real mean streak and a band of yellow a mile wide running right down his back. He'd have more men and they'd be just as likely to come back to finish what they started earlier.

Ten miles outside of Laramie the sun had well and truly dipped below the Medicine Bow Range, taking with it what little warmth had been on offer. The sky was a spectacular palette of orange, red and purple streaks spread across the horizon. While on any other occasion all three men would have paused to admire its beauty, this evening it did nothing more than add another layer of discomfort to their journey.

Jess was shaking like a man possessed. Charlie had insisted they stop to drape a blanket around him and that had given Slim a whole new armoury of blame-ridden ammunition to fire Charlie's way.

Slim, although oozing all kinds of negative vibes and on some level of understanding knowing most of them were floating Charlie's away, was in fact feeling as if his insides had fretted themselves into one big ball of tightly-knotted fear

Jess was much sicker than he'd first thought and because of this they were forced to keep the horses to a walk and the regular stops to tend to him slowed them down even more.

Charlie was shivering right along with Harper despite the heat still radiating off of Jess's body. The cool fall air was taking its toll on both riders. Slim seemed oblivious... seated tall and stiff in the saddle, his jaw determinedly thrust forward, lips a thin tense line. His repeated glances over his shoulder only served to unnerve Charlie even more. So, when the first signs of civilisation finally started to appear, it was a welcome relief.

sssSSSSsss

Slim pulled up to the hitching rail in front of Doc Burns' residence and tied the horses, a wary eye fixed on Morgan as he eased himself out of the saddle. Without a word he made his way over to where Charlie had Jess in a bear hug, trying to keep him upright.

"Okay, Morgan, you can let go now." Slim pulled Jess from his horse and supported him while Charlie slid down, legs collapsing the moment his feet hit the ground. He landed with a thud up close and personal with Sherman's boots.

Slim had never met anyone quite like Charlie Morgan. He didn't slot into any of the categorized boxes Slim had in his head for strangers in town. There was nothing about him that made sense. He didn't strike Slim as a complete imbecile... in his own way the man seemed intelligent enough and he certainly showed he had a soft spot for Jess even though he'd taken it upon himself to kidnap him from the saloon. While Charlie was proving to be somewhat of an anomaly... right then, Slim didn't have the time, the patience or the energy to invest in trying to figure him out. They needed to get Jess inside.

Once Charlie was upright and had managed to stamp some circulation back into his legs, he helped Sherman usher Harper up the three steps leading to the Doctor's residence where Slim knocked on the door and called out to Doc Burns.

Inside the doc took charge and Charlie and Slim followed in his wake.

"Bring him back here, Slim. What happened?" Doc Burns went ahead and opened the door to his surgery, steering Slim and Charlie towards an exam table in the middle of the room.

"Caught one in the shoulder. The bullet's out but the wound's infected. He's real sick, Doc."

Charlie helped Slim lay Harper on the table and then stood back out of the way while Sherman and the doc removed the now newly blood-stained shirt and bandages.

sssSSSsss

"What's going to happen to me?"

Charlie hadn't wanted to voice his concern, but two hours after being relegated to the waiting room had his mind whirling in all directions - none of which the final destination held anything promising. Fearing that Harper might not make it and knowing it was mostly his fault and coupled with the fact he knew there would be consequences, Charlie wanted some idea of what was in store for him. He realised it must have sounded terribly selfish to be wondering about _his_ future when Harper might not have one.

Slim had been alternating between slow deliberate pacing and sitting quiet with his eyes fixed firmly on his clasped hands, elbows resting on knees. The only break in his routine being the occasional sweep of fingers through unruly hair.

Charlie thought he preferred Sherman's wrath to his display of quiet brooding.

Slim lifted his head when Morgan's voice cut through his thoughts.

"Huh?"

"I said, 'what's going to happen to me?'"

"That's for Mort to decide."

Mort. Harper had called the sheriff Mort. With a sinking feeling, Charlie realised his dream of becoming a rancher was over. _Was_ kidnapping a hangable offence? And if Harper died would that make him an accessory to murder?

Charlie sat hunched forward, mimicking Slim, his own elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped tightly together, thumbs twisting in nervous circles around each other as he contemplated meeting up with the sheriff.

Slim rose again, walked towards the door leading to the surgery... and Jess. _What the hell was taking so long?_ Slim had been in this situation many times. In fact waiting for news of Jess from a doc was almost second nature to him, but that didn't make it any easier. Jess seemed particularly bad this time and that put the fear of God in him.

Every now and then Slim's thoughts were drawn to Morgan. He should get him over to Mort. But what if the doc had news of Jess? Providence dictated that as soon as he walked out the door the doc would make an appearance.

So Morgan could darn well sit where he was and rot for all Slim cared. All this was his fault and it didn't matter a tinker's cuss that Charlie had been more than willing to help.

"How long do these things usually take?" Morgan's voice once again insinuated itself into Slim's thoughts.

"What?"

"Cleaning a bullet wound? How long does it usually take?"

Slim returned to his seat and slouched forward, resuming his position of elbows on knees and hands laced. "Should be done by now. 'less there were complications."

And that's what was worrying him. _Why was it taking so long?_ Slim shot to his feet again and bounded towards the surgery, ready to give the door a hammering with his fist when it suddenly swung open and he came face to face with Doc Burns... scowling at the raised fist waving in front of him.

Slim lowered his hand and his temper and apologised.

"How is he?"

"He'll do."

"He's goin' to be all right, then?"

"It'll take time, but he'll pull through."

A thousand things raced through Slim's mind, not the least being relief. But at the edge of his consciousness he wondered how he was going to manage with Jess out of action. Winter was just around the corner. They had a lot of work ahead of them before the first snow fell.

Doc Burns side-stepped Slim and addressed Charlie. "You the one removed the bullet last night?"

"Yeah. You could say that."

"You probably saved his arm. At least the use of it. There was some nerve damage, but not so bad he won't get over it. Might not have been so lucky if that bullet'd stayed where it was."

Charlie would have liked to have accepted the accolades and stand to take a bow, but how could he? Knowing this whole blasted mess was due to his foolishness. He wondered how the doctor could find it in him to even bother to offer praise. Hadn't he just spent the better part of two hours putting Harper back together again?

The moment of praise was brief and without celebration. Doc Burns turned his attention back to Slim.

"He's asking for you."

"Jess is awake?"

"Lord knows how, but he is. I've given him something that should've a put horse down for a week or more, but that young man is as stubborn as a mule and insisting on having a word with you."

For the first time in twenty-four hours, Slim felt himself grin.

"Go on. But make it quick. And don't go getting him all upset."

sssSSSsss

Charlie watched Slim disappear into the surgery and let out a long slow breath. The room suddenly seemed much larger without Sherman's imposing form taking all the space.

 _What now?_ What was Harper going to tell Sherman? All the thousands of ways he'd bungled everything? Charlie wasn't given to fits of depression but he felt a big blue cloud of despair descend upon him obscuring any thoughts of a positive outcome to his situation.

He contemplated what life would be like in jail. He'd be completely alone. No family to visit him. Who would send word to his mother and father and his brother? Did he really want them to know of his failure? How, instead of building a life for himself on a ranch, he was spending his time doing hard labour in the wilds of Wyoming? Was it true prisoners were only fed bread and water? He'd starve! Charlie chuffed a short humourless laugh. _I'm worried about starving when I may never draw a breath of free air again?_ _And that's if I escape the hangman's noose._

Chuck wasn't a complete stranger to jail time. There was that one incident... during his 'experimentation stage' while learning about herbal medicine that he'd got a taste of life on the inside.

Charlie wasn't a huge fan of cricket but he'd agreed to go and keep William company. A ciggy and a beer were his coping mechanisms. At the time he hadn't realised his medicinal herbs had got mixed up with his tobacco, despite the unusual smell as he dragged long and hard on his neatly rolled quirly.

At the end of the last over it had all seemed perfectly natural to strip off his clothes and bound across the oval in the altogether... alas the constable who had arrested him sorely lacked a sense of humour and Charlie had spent a night in the lockup. But here in the Wild West it was different. Surely he would be spending the rest of his life... assuming they spared it... behind bars.

"Morgan?"

And then there was Harper. Charles had genuinely liked Jess and now the man may die. Yes, the doctor had said he'd pull through, but how could he know for sure?

"Morgan!"

Charlie snapped to attention at the sharp bark of his name.

"Jess wants to talk to you." Slim was looming in the doorway in all his cantankerous glory.

"Me?" Charlie's mind back-peddled from thoughts of jail and death and starvation and immediately launched into confusion. Why would Harper want to speak to _him?_ Surely he must be wallowing in a huge trough of relief now Charlie was nowhere to be seen.

"Yeah, you. Come on, he hasn't got long." Slim stood back from the doorway making space for Charlie to pass and indicating he should move his butt post haste.

' _He hasn't got long.' Oh dear God... Harper's dying! I knew it; I knew the doctor couldn't be sure he'd live._

"Well? Are you coming?"

Charlie moved as if in a daze. His feet had suddenly grown heavy, his footsteps slow and clumsy, his mind uncharacteristically numb.

"Over there." Slim pointed to a day bed, where Jess was buried under a pile of blankets, his wounded shoulder swathed in white with a small penny-sized patch of rust-brown staining the neatly bound bandages.

Harper's eyes were closed, brow coated in sweat. _At least his body is attempting to cool itself_ , Charlie noted absently _. Although, now of course, it's too late._

"He's going to die, isn't he?" _I've killed an innocent man... and I'll be hung for murder._

"I ain't dyin'. Why're ya always assumin' the worst?" Jess thought Slim was a worrier but he weren't nothin' compared to Morgan.

Charlie looked from Jess to Slim to Jess to the doc, who eventually took pity on him.

"Oh, I wouldn't be digging a grave just yet. He's still a little the worse for wear but he's going to make it."

"Harper... I..."

"Wait... Morgan... I got somethin' to... to say. 'Bout everything 'ats happened... I... I just want ya to know... I'm real obliged to ya... for the way ya took care of me an' all... out there... on the trail..."

Jess's eyes drooped to half-mast and he licked his lips, fighting the drug Doc Burns had given him, determined to have his say.

"Don't... don't reckon I coulda made it if ya hadn't come back... the... the way ya did..."

Charlie was dumbfounded. Speechless... he'd never had that happen to him before. His mind frantically scrambled around for words, anything, but there was nothing to be found and so his mouth, barren and empty, hung open in shock.

Jess continued, "Me and Slim... we... we been talk... talkin'. 'Bout what... we're gonna... gonna... do...with..." Before he could finish, the drug won out. Jess's eyes slid shut, his jaw relaxed and his head lolled listlessly to the side.

Doc Burns moved Charlie aside and placed his stethoscope on Jess's chest, listening intently for a few seconds before folding it up and slipping it inside his pocket. "Good strong beat. He's sleeping now. He'll be all right. Not much more you two can do here... why don't you go get something to eat. He should sleep through the night."

"To tell the truth, Doc, now that you mention it, it's been awhile since I ate." Slim turned to Charlie. "Whadda ya say, Morgan. Can I interest you in some grub? They cook a pretty mean steak over at Sam's."

Food. Charlie hadn't given it much thought since he and Harper had faced off against those gunmen. As if sensing a meal was imminent, his stomach gurgled and grumbled and stamped loud and hard in anticipation of being filled.

Although his belly had no problem voicing its demands, Charlie's mind was still walking in circles searching for something to say. Questions flew wildly around while thoughts that led to sensible answers were still being evasive.

"Morgan? You coming?"

"Huh?"

"To Sam's. Told you, I'm going to get something to eat. You wanna join me?"

"Oh... Yes." Charlie didn't have to be a genius to work out what Harper had been trying to say. He and Sherman had been talking - about what was to become of him. Gratitude only went so far, he knew that. When it was all said and done they had no choice. He wondered idly if this was to be his token last meal as a free man? His last supper. Harper and Sherman's way of showing their thanks before turning him over to the sheriff. Suddenly his stomach quit whining and filled itself with a heavy load of dread.

Charlie trailed quietly after Slim as he led the way to Sam's saloon. Was it really only a little more than twenty-four hours since he had taken Harper from there?

The place was nearly deserted. Being a Sunday night, Charlie wasn't surprised. He wondered where the sheriff was and why Sherman was delaying in handing him over. Maybe Sheriff Corey had gone home for the night, or was out of town... come to think of it, why hadn't Corey accompanied Sherman on his search for Harper? Charles felt remarkably calm for someone about to face a firing squad... figuratively speaking... or maybe it wasn't. Maybe they shot criminals in the West instead of hanging them. Either way, he was done for.

"Sit down Morgan. I'll order us a beer."

 _A beer? Dinner? What was Sherman's game?_ But Charlie simply nodded and took a seat at the table Slim had chosen for them in a quiet corner of the saloon.

 _Take a final look around at what freedom is like, Charlie. This will probably be your last night to enjoy it. Blimey! I'm talking to myself and I haven't even been incarcerated yet!_

"Here." Slim dumped a mug of beer down on the table in front of Charlie, swung a leg over a chair and took a seat, raising his glass to Charlie before gulping back a long swig.

Charlie wondered how Sherman could be so matter-of-fact about things when he was about to hand a man over to face certain death _. Although, come to think of it, wasn't I willing to do the same with Harper before I learned the truth?_

"I've ordered us a couple of steaks. They're all out of beans but they got potatoes."

Well, that was one shining light in this miserable day. Maybe his one lucky star was still watching his back... his digestive system was certainly shouting for joy at the news of no beans while at the same time bowing down to kiss his feet in appreciation.

"Dandy." Charlie muttered, and then took a tentative sip of his beer. "What now?" He asked, placing the mug down in front of him.

"Don't know about you, but I'm going to eat."

"You know perfectly well what I'm referring to. Why the delay? I thought you and Harper would want rid of me as soon as possible."

"Who said anything about getting rid of you?"

"Unless you're planning to accompany me to the penitentiary then I really can't see as you have any choice."

"Uh. Yeah." Slim dipped his head and traced one long finger round the rim of his beer glass. "I wanna talk to you about that."

"What's to talk about? I know what's coming. So why don't we just get it over and done with?"

"Whoa, now. Hold your horses there, Morgan. Before you start jumpin' to conclusions, I got somethin' to say." Slim sat up, laced his fingers and placed his hands on the table in front of him.

"Jess told me what happened... more or less... Explained about that McCann fella posing as a marshal in Cheyenne, the wanted poster... I'd say you're as much a victim in this as Jess is."

"I feel like a right prat." _Amongst other things,_ Charlie whined to himself.

Slim raised an eyebrow. "Seems I might have had you figured wrong, Morgan. From what Jess told me, you aren't as bad as I first thought you were. He told me what you did... how you came back to help him when you coulda run off instead of goin' for help. Anyway, he's convinced me maybe you're worth giving a leg up."

"What?"

"I've got a proposition I wanna put to you."

"Yeah? What? Hang in Laramie or hang in Cheyenne?"

"Boy, you're just a bundle of sunshine and roses, aren'tya?"

Charlie sat, head bowed, staring at his hands.

"I was going to say... how would you like a job? At the relay station... my ranch. With Jess out of action I'm going to need another hand to help with the chores.

"There's the stage team that needs changing. And we got any number of things need fixin' around the place... and with winter comin' there's stock to be moved..."

"You can't be serious? Didn't Harper tell you everything I touch turns to disaster?"

"He said you could do with some ' learnin''. But also said he reckoned you were teachable. The way I figure it... whadda ya got to lose?"

 _What have I got to lose? Truer words have never been spoken._ Charlie took a moment to study Sherman's face. Seeking any sign that maybe the man was going to break out laughing and yell ' _gotchya!'_ But Slim Sherman seemed earnest enough. And now that Harper was out of danger, some of that hostility of his seemed to have worn off.

Charlie dared to hope. Could he learn from these men? Become the rancher he'd dreamed of all these years? Charlie's heart quickened, a warm buzz sang in his head and a tingle of anticipation circulated through his veins, tickling his imagination.

' _CHARLIE MORGAN CATTLE MAGNATE.'_ Tall tales of the Morgan Empire scrolled through his mind.

' _Is all that land yours, Mr. Morgan?'_

' _It sure is, son, as far as the eye can see. All them valleys, the creeks, the hills... it's all mine...'_

"Well? You interested?"

Slim's words cut rudely through Charlie's glorious dreams.

"Yes. Yes I am." And Charlie let a small smile curl his lips.

"We've got a deal then." Slim lifted his glass, offered a small salute to Charlie and downed the rest of his beer.

"Two steaks. There ya go, Slim." Ben from the kitchen placed two plates on the table. "Found you boys some beans to go with them potatoes."

Slim grinned.

Charlie groaned and his innards squeezed themselves into a tight ball of protest.

"What's the matter, Morgan, you don't like beans?"

Both Sherman and the table wait were eyeing him suspiciously.

Charlie had a feeling there was an awful lot riding on his answer. Possibly his whole reputation as a cowboy. While Charlie contemplated the correct response, his stomach was gurgling away just daring him to say yes.

"Of course I like beans. Who wouldn't?"

Slim relaxed and shovelled a forkful into his mouth.

Ben nodded in satisfaction and headed back to the kitchen.

And Charlie's stomach exploded indelicately, letting the world know exactly how it felt about beans.

THE END - TO BE CONTINUED IN CHARLIE MORGAN BOOK TWO.

NOTES - This story was written for Tony Gill who brought the character of Charlie Morgan to life in the Westerns on the web Sundown series. His Charlie was a lot meaner than the one in this story but this is a prequel to the events in the Sundown episode. A huge thank you to Jan, Sheryl and Diana for betaing. You guys are the best!


End file.
